When Darkness Falls
by MizJoely
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been "dead" for approximately eighteen months when everything goes to hell; Molly Hooper has gone missing. Dark, angsty story but with a light at the end of the tunnel. Sherlolly. Chapter 9 now posted!
1. Things Go Wrong

_A/N: I know, I know. I said I woulnd't post anything new (certainly not a multi-chapter fic like this!) before I finished "Abandoned." Or the last EnCounters story. Or any of the other million non-Sherlock stories I've left hanging for too long. Or before I posted the Sherlock Mirror!verse story I've been working (still doing it, promise, just stuck at how to get from Point "C" to Point "D".)_

_But._

_This one is almost finished, and it is the very first story wickedwanton has ever beta'd, so it's time she got some props. She made this story much better than it would have been otherwise. Thanks, H!_

_Warnings for drug use, noncon and general mayhem being inflicted against Molly Hooper until tragedy is overcome, which it will be. (No, really, I really really do like her and Sherlock, I just like them to suffer a bit first, I guess.)_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had been "dead" for approximately eighteen months when everything went to shit and he was forced to return home ahead of schedule.

Not that he'd had an actual schedule per se, but still. The work was unfinished, his reputation only partially restored as the truth came out in bits and snippets, Moriarty's criminal empire fragmented but still in existence. The infrastructure was no longer as secure as it had been, several key players had been anonymously gifted to the proper authorities – and several others anonymously disposed of when no other option was viable. He was, in short, making inroads. Serious inroads.

To that aim, he'd left England exactly thirty days earlier and hadn't planned to return until certain matters had been dealt with in Switzerland, Germany and France.

Switzerland and Germany were behind him, the information he'd needed found, dissected, and used; the threats disarmed, the evildoers rounded up or killed. France, however, was a different matter. There were still things to attend to in France, and some intriguing leads in the Czech Republic and Poland to follow up on.

In other words, there was still work to be done before Sherlock Holmes could make his eventual return to the world of the living. The plans for which were already in place.

All such plans were thrown out the door, and he found himself on the next plane back to London from his current hiding place in Nice, France, when he received his brother's terse text on the burner phone he'd only recently purchased.

_Molly Hooper has gone missing._

Until the moment he received the anonymous text (not that he needed to see Mycroft's name to know who had sent it), Sherlock hadn't been certain that his elder brother knew of his survival; nor had he been certain that Mycroft knew who, exactly, had aided him in his deception.

Molly Hooper. She'd helped him, hidden him, and sent him on his way when he judged it safe to leave her flat after his "death" with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek and a soft "Be careful" in his ear.

His pathologist. His friend. Or was she more than a friend?

He'd never asked her how she felt about him; why ask when the answer was obvious? However, he'd also deliberately kept himself from asking the far more problematic question: How did _he_ feel about _her_, beyond trusting her and considering her (yes) a friend?

He'd put the troublesome question of his feelings for Molly Hooper aside the second he left her flat and began his self-appointed mission of rooting up Moriarty's criminal network; they were nothing but a distraction he simply could not afford. Well, there was that one night, the night before he left for Switzerland just last month, the night he'd considered deleting because he knew, absolutely _knew_, that the memory would be nothing but a distraction...but if he did, Molly would be hurt. She wouldn't understand, not entirely, even if he tried to explain it to her.

He did, however, relegate it to the attic spaces of his mind palace, refusing to use the memory of Molly's soft, warm, eager body against his, the feel of her lips and tongue and hands – refused to allow himself the comfort of using those memories to succor him during the endless, dull hours of surveillance, or when things went to shit and he was convinced he wouldn't make it out alive.

He wouldn't. Not until he was able to return home in triumph (there was never, ever room for doubting himself in his mind; he _would_ triumph, he _would_ return home; ergo, he would return home in triumph) and reassure himself and the others that they were no longer endangered simply for caring about him.

So much for that theory.

_Molly Hooper has gone missing._

With further thought he realized that his brother's PA must have sent the message; Mycroft never texted and certainly never used such imprecise language. _When_ had she "gone missing"? Under what circumstances? However, when he contacted Mycroft, all he got was his brother's reassurances that he would be given all the pertinent details immediately upon his return, and the information that tickets were waiting for him at the British Airway's desk of the Aéroport _Nice_ Côte d'Azur.

Two hours later he was on a plane for home, fingers steepled before his face as he carefully opened the attic doors in his mind palace. Carefully, methodically examining the forbidden memories, searching them for some clue that his impetuous actions that night had been the catalyst that brought this about.

Desperate to find evidence that he hadn't been the cause of Molly's disappearance…and knowing, deep in his churning gut, that he had.

**Two Days Earlier**

It had been a perfectly normal, post-Sherlock day for Molly Hooper: autopsies in the morgue, coffee with co-workers who'd finally stopped treating her as if she were made of glass, lunch with a nurse friend of hers who'd begged her to stop eating on the roof (she often ate there in warm weather, dangling her legs over the side in defiance of those who argued that such a fixation on the site of her not-boyfriend's "suicidal" jump was dangerous at best and unhealthy at worst), paperwork, one last-minute emergency autopsy for DI Lestrade ("Call me Greg, Molly; Christ, we've known each other long enough, don't you think?"), more paperwork…

Then the walk home. She always walked home on nice days and evenings, since she lived less than a mile from St. Bart's. And this particular December night was unseasonably warm, almost spring-like – was it global warming or climate shift or just the vagaries of winter in London? Who knew, and who cared? Molly just enjoyed it, strolling along and thinking about nothing in particular as she made her way back to her flat.

She shouldn't have been daydreaming. It was eight o'clock at night. It was dark. She should have been walking further away from the entrance to the alley. She shouldn't have allowed herself to believe she was still safely invisible to Sherlock's enemies – and she should most certainly not have allowed herself to be distracted by memories of that glorious night the two of them spent together before he left for the Continent.

She didn't even have time to scream when the hands reached out of the dark alleyway and grabbed her, dragging her struggling, kicking form into deeper darkness. The gloved hand over her mouth effectively muffled her attempts to scream, but she doggedly kept on trying to make the noises heard as she clawed at the hand (useless through the thick leather glove) and kicked back at the shins (always just out of reach and her low-heeled galoshes wouldn't do much damage even if she did connect), trying her very best to get away from whoever had grabbed her.

She stopped all struggles when she felt the tip of a very sharp something prick the underside of her chin. Just enough to draw blood, to catch her full and undivided attention as she found herself fighting down a surge of panic that made her initial terror fade into inconsequence.

"That's better, luv," a low, guttural voice – a man's voice, one she absolutely did not recognize – crooned in her right ear. The hand covering her mouth was gripping her face so tightly she knew she'd have bruises, but again, it was the knife clutched in the other hand that held her attention at the moment. "No point fightin' since you're comin' with me no matter what. Better not to have to cut you up, yeah?"

As he backed her deeper into the alley, Molly realized he was still speaking to her, and once his words registered, that barely-restrained panic once again tried to flood her mind.

He was talking about Sherlock, not directly, but what he was saying was so not good.

"She'll be a complete wreck, melt down like a candle left out in the summer sun, he said, and he's never wrong about these things," the rough voice mused. "Why is that? Why didn't you melt down and get sent off for a lovely rest in the country? Why is it going on a year and a half and you just keep quietly livin' your life while John Watson gets back into therapy and that Baker Street landlady of theirs spends more and more time out of town with her nieces and nephews, and DI Lestrade drinks himself under the table every flippin' night?"

She couldn't answer even if she wanted to, could barely breathe, but he twisted her face until she was forced to peer up at him (he was much, much taller than she was, her head barely came to his chin), even though she couldn't see his features and was certain he couldn't see hers, either. Still, he lowered his head as if peering intently into her eyes before asking: "Why is that?"

He fell silent for a long moment, but when he spoke again, Molly thought her heart would stop right in her chest. "I'm guessin' it's because you know something we don't. That's what he says, and he's never wrong 'bout stuff like this."

The passing headlights of a car flashed into the alley, briefly offering enough light for her to see him clearly. Tall, blocky build, blonde hair in a brush cut that reminded her of every military man she'd ever met, dark blue eyes, nose cocked sideways from some long-ago fight or other, a narrow scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth…He smiled, a cold icicle of a smile that chilled her to the marrow, and released his grip on her chin, grabbing her hair and twisting it until she cried out in pain. He shoved her roughly toward the back of the alley, the knife still firmly pressed to her throat as he said, "Let's find out if we're right, eh? Come on, girly."

_No panicking, Molly, keep calm, this doesn't have to end up with you in the morgue lying on the table instead of standing over it,_ she chattered silently to herself, although she was shaking so badly no one would have been convinced by her words even if they'd been spoken aloud.

If this had been a simple mugging, which had been her first thought, then it would already be over; her cash and mobile would already be gone, and she'd have made her way to the street, most likely flagged down that passing car and requested that the driver phone the police.

But that wasn't what was happening; it was about Sherlock, this was one of Jim Moriarty's men, and he knew, he'd guessed somehow, that Sherlock wasn't dead and _Oh God, it was all her fault, if she'd known she was giving it away she'd have done something, anything, differently, why hadn't she pretended to have a breakdown, would that have worked, have kept her from being dragged to a half-open doorway at the end of this filthy alley? Would it have kept Sherlock's secret a secret…how could she have let him down so badly?_

That was her last thought before she was thrust through that doorway, as black as the rest of the alley, shoved into the arms of another person, one who efficiently and quietly shoved a gag in her mouth, tied her arms behind her back, and let her know he held a gun on her by the simple expedient of allowing her to feel it pressed into the small of her back.

They made their silent way down a dark corridor, Molly doing her best not to stumble in the darkness, but knowing she kept on her feet only because her captor – the one she dubbed Knife Man – retained a firm grip on her upper arm.

The other man, the one with the gun, who still hadn't spoken, walked ahead of them. When they reached what Molly assumed was the back of the building, he opened a door, glanced around, then nodded sharply and held the door wide. Knife Man hurried her through it and thrust her into the back seat of a waiting car. Seconds later the other man joined them, jumping behind the wheel before speeding off into the night to an unknown destination.

It felt like they drove through the darkened London streets for hours; Molly had never had a particularly strong sense of time and it utterly failed her in her terror and panic. It was hard to breathe with the gag in her mouth, and Knife Man never let go of her arm. Nor did he or the other man speak another word until the car pulled into what looked like an abandoned underground parking garage.

"He said bring her to the maintenance room," the driver announced, speaking for the first time. The car slowed and pulled up to a nondescript metal door. He sounded a bit Northern to Molly's ears, had dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail low on the back of his neck, and a mole on the side of his bulky nose. His eyes were dark, but that was all she could make of him in the brief time she was able to see him clearly in the overhead light of the car.

Knife Man grunted in response, opened his door and dragged Molly out with him. He slammed the car door shut, the other man drove off, and Molly was shoved toward the unmarked metal door.

He turned the handle and the door opened on well-oiled hinges, revealing an unlit room that appeared empty in the dim lighting from the parking garage.

"Ladies first," he said with a sardonic grin. Then he shoved her through, causing her to stumble and sprawl in an ungainly heap on the floor.

It wasn't until she heard the door slam shut behind her that she realized he wasn't coming into the room with her. That he was leaving her there, in the dark, with a foul-tasting rag stuffed into her mouth and her arms so tightly tied behind her back that she was losing the feeling in her hands and wrists, to face the unknown person who was behind her abduction or to simply rot here until they came back for her...if they ever did...

An overhead light switched on, bringing tears to her eyes at the sudden brightness. She managed to get herself into a sitting position, legs beneath her as she turned, half-blinded, to see who was in the room with her.

She blinked away the pain-tears as they tried to morph into panic-tears, fright-tears that would never stop flowing once given free rein. There was nothing she could do about her racing heart and ragged breathing, but she needed to keep her head, needed to see who was in the room with her...

Her eyes widened in terrified recognition as a familiar figure sauntered into the circle of light that so neatly surrounded her, as it settled itself into the single folding metal chair that she found herself facing on the edge of that circle.

The figure leaned forward and smiled at her. "Molly, love, so good to see you again. And we've got sooo much to discuss, haven't we, you naughty girl?"

Then Jim Moriarty pulled out a knife, leaned forward until his face was next to hers, and cut off the gag.

Molly screamed.

**Three Days Later**

John Watson sill couldn't believe it. He'd had two full days to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was alive, and he still had a damned hard time convincing himself it was so.

Even his bruised and bloodied knuckles weren't enough to convince him; surely he'd punched the wall rather than Sherlock's long, narrow (and bloody _bony_) jaw? Surely he'd finally gone and lost his mind the way he'd sometimes felt was bound to happen during the past eighteen months?

Then he looked up and saw Sherlock standing by the window, violin and bow in hand, and knew that, no, he hadn't lost his mind.

Best. Christmas gift. Ever.

He couldn't help the grin that spread over his face as he studied his back-from-the-dead friend and flat mate. Even under the current, distressing circumstances, whenever he dared to allow himself to believe that yes, Sherlock was still alive and relatively well and right here in the flat at 221B Baker Street, a similar grin etched itself across his features.

"Stop smirking like an idiot," Sherlock growled without turning around.

John's grin widened. "Sorry, mate, can't help it," he replied cheerfully. "You're just gonna have to get used to it, yeah?"

Sherlock turned around that time, and his angry glower finally dimmed John's sunny grin. "Molly Hooper has been missing for three days," he said, biting out each word with painful precision. "I fail to see how even my return from the 'dead' is enough to compensate for that fact."

Put that way, John felt ashamed of himself for feeling even a moment's happiness. Still, there it was; his best mate wasn't dead, and even the fact of Molly's disappearance couldn't completely put a damper on his joy. "No luck, still?" he asked, knowing the answer even as the words left his lips.

Sherlock returned to gazing out the window after placing the violin and bow on the sill. "No, no _luck_," he replied. John could hear the contempt in his pronunciation of the second word. "Even if I believed in such a thing – which you know very well I do not – there have also been no clues, no hints, no evidence…nothing." He reached up with agitated hands and raked his fingers through his thick curls. "It's as if Molly Hooper left St. Bart's and stepped off the face of the planet."

John had no answer to that; if Sherlock Holmes said there were no clues, then it was nothing more nor less than the truth. No matter how many times Greg Lestrade tried to reassure them that he and his team were doing everything possible to locate the missing pathologist, they all knew – Greg included – that he was only blowing smoke. If a clue, evidence of any kind, was to be found, Sherlock would have found it by now.

All they had was a handful of facts: Molly Hooper had left work on a Thursday evening about a half-hour after the nominal end of her shift, so around eight p.m. She'd done a last-minute autopsy for Lestrade, apparently stayed to finish up some paperwork after she'd emailed him the preliminary report, left the morgue…and vanished. Oh, she'd said good-bye to some co-workers before leaving the building, but the last anyone had seen of her, she'd walked through the main doors of the hospital, and that was that.

The first John had heard of her disappearance was when Greg Lestrade had called him two days ago, although at the time all John had heard was "missing woman." Lestrade had sounded odd, his voice strangled as if with illness or deep emotion, but John had been too buried in his own depression to bother to let the man finish explaining before he'd (rather rudely) told the detective inspector he was no longer in the case-solving business and to sod off.

The DI had promptly called back to inform him that it was Molly Hooper who'd gone missing, and would John just get his bloody arse down to New Scotland Yard, because there had been further…developments.

John snorted at the memory. "Further developments," indeed. Such as the supposedly killed-by-his-own-hands world's only Consulting Detective popping up alive and very much involved in the case of the missing pathologist.

The altercation between the two men – if it could be labeled as such, when John was the only one "altercating" while Sherlock simply stood there and took it, stoic bloody robot that he could be at times – had taken place in a private conference room two floors above Lestrade's office. Once that was out of the way, so no one was likely to hear the accompanying shouts and accusations and, dammit, yes, weeping. Once Sherlock had made his terse explanations _("Literal guns to your heads, John, and only one way out of it, then of course I had to ensure your continued safety"_), he'd insisted that they focus on the issue at hand: Molly Hooper's disappearance.

As Sherlock had so rightly pointed out, the poor girl had now been missing for three days and not one hint as to her whereabouts had been found. No ransom demands had been made, no (thank God) body recovered. Her cat had been given into the care of her downstairs neighbor, an elderly woman who thought the world of Molly and had actually been the one to report her missing – however, since she'd made the report only two hours after Molly failed to return home, her concerns had initially been politely dismissed by the operator who'd taken her call. She's gone shopping, she's visiting with friends, she's gone to have drinks with a boyfriend – no boyfriend? All right, not that, then. But surely one of the other very reasonable scenarios was more likely than that she'd been kidnapped…

"Molly had her routine, and if she was going to be late, she'd have asked me to feed Toby," Mrs. Lynderson had insisted at the end of that call. Afterward, exasperated by the emergency operator's attempts at soothing her into giving up her stubborn insistence that something sinister had happened to Dr. Hooper, she'd made her determined way to New Scotland Yard to make her report in person.

She'd been loudly proclaiming her concerns to the bored – but politely patient – desk sergeant when DI Lestrade happened to walk by on his way to grab a cup of coffee. He'd heard Molly's name and immediately ushered the flustered but pleased elderly woman into the nearest interview room.

That had been the first day. The next day, Lestrade had made his phone call to John and Sherlock Holmes had turned up not-dead. As far as John Watson was concerned, the world had both tilted on its axis and at the same time settled back into its proper orbit.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead. It was a shame it took Molly Hooper going missing to bring him back to life, but now that he was involved, John was confident it was only a matter of time before she was found. Clues or no clues, evidence or no evidence, once Sherlock Holmes put his mind to a problem, it was as good as solved.


	2. Finding Molly

_A/N: Warnings in this chapter for a lot of stuff, none of it good, including one result of unprotected sex - well, more than one, but you'll see when it happens. Don't want to give too much away up front. Just be braced for Not Goodness in this chapter.  
_

* * *

**Two Months Later**

"As good as solved," John had confidently told himself. Sherlock's on the case, everything will be resolved soon.

It wasn't the outcome they'd achieved. Not remotely.

After two months of continuing non-information leading to the whereabouts and (more importantly) safe return of Molly Hooper, even the knowledge that Sherlock was alive was nowhere near enough to buoy John Watson's spirits for more than a fleeting second at a time.

It certainly did nothing to improve said not-so-dead detective's mood, which had hardly started off on a level even close to "buoyant" ever since his return to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was pacing around the flat, violin in one hand, bow in the other, although he hadn't bothered playing anything on it for more than a few, distracted minutes at a time. He'd done the same thing yesterday afternoon, after a morning spent tramping around Molly's flat for the fourth or fifth time, looking for something, anything they'd overlooked during their first visits.

Nothing. Mrs. Lynderson had given up trying to maintain the place in Molly's absence, her arthritic hands and knees not being up to the task in the long run. She'd taken Molly's cat downstairs to live with her ("Just until she finds her way back to us," she'd said, her voice a chirp of false reassurance that failed to reassure any of them, including, John suspected, herself) and handed over the spare key to Sherlock without a murmur.

She'd been one of the vociferous few who'd defended him in the wake of his "suicide" and the subsequent shredding of his reputation, and all based on Molly's insistence that he was exactly who he said he was, that you couldn't fake or bluff your way through brilliance of the kind he exhibited. Even with the internet at your fingertips 24/7.

Sherlock, John noticed, had been rather taken aback by the woman's vehement defense of him, her extreme happiness at his return from the dead – and her touching belief that he would find Molly and bring her home safely.

He just wished he shared her sentiments. Because after two months, even with Sherlock Holmes on the case, it just seemed too unlikely that this story would have a happy ending.

Certainly not for Molly.

The sound of Sherlock's mobile ringing interrupted John's moody reverie. It wasn't the ringtone he'd chosen for Greg Lestrade or his brother Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. So someone else, then, which made it unlikely to be some kind of news – good or otherwise – about Molly.

As Sherlock frowned down at the text message he'd received, John found his mind drifting to Mrs. Hudson, and he smiled as he remembered how happy she'd been to find out that her favorite tenant – John couldn't begrudge her that favoritism, since _he_ hadn't been the one to improve her life by saving her from her former husband several years ago – was still alive.

She'd wept and snuffled into Sherlock's shirt collar while he patiently allowed her to have her cry – then she'd given him a smart slap on the cheek and scolded him for putting them through so much, good reasons or not, warning him that if he ever tried anything like that again, she would personally throw his precious Strad into the Thames.

Sherlock had taken the threat very, very seriously – and promised her, quite gravely, that if he ever found it necessary to fake his own death in future, he would be sure to find a way to let her in on it. Then, with a distinct twinkle in his eye, he'd further promised that if he were unable to make good on that promise, he would be sure to take his violin with him.

It was the only time he'd shown any signs of good humor since his return, and it had been before he and John had even returned to their shared flat.

With a start, John came back to the present, noticing that Sherlock was still staring at his mobile, unmoving, his posture rigid, and his eyes flat and cold as a snake's.

"What is it? What's happened?"

John had been slumped in his chair, the newspaper half-folded over one knee; it dropped to the floor in a flutter of pages as he jumped up and hurried to Sherlock's side, peering down at the mobile.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he read the message, read it again, then looked at Sherlock, hoping for enlightenment.

None appeared to be forthcoming. Sherlock's face was absolutely expressionless; either he had no idea what the message meant…or he knew exactly what it meant and was either annoyed or angry and didn't want either emotion to show.

_You missed something. You always do._

The two sentences sent a chill down his spine, raised the hackles at the back of his neck – and continued to leave absolutely no visible impression on Sherlock's face.

"Who –" he started to ask, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Whoever took her, obviously."

John nodded, knowing Sherlock required neither an answer nor an affirmation of his words, but feeling the need to do something, anything at all. It was encouraging, right, that they'd finally received a message? A taunting message, true, but if all there was to find was a body, surely the kidnapper – whoever it was – wouldn't bother?

He watched as Sherlock threw on his jacket and scarf, grabbing his own coat and hurrying after his friend as he clattered down the stairs and out the front door without bothering to see if John was behind him or not. "Where are we going?" John asked as they reached the sidewalk.

"Bart's," was Sherlock's brief reply, his attention on flagging down a cab.

"Why are we going to Bart's? Why not Molly's flat?" John asked.

"Because we were at the hospital less than twenty-four hours ago, ample time to ensure that whatever clue I supposedly missed is now more easily accessed," Sherlock replied, his voice lacking the near-glee it usually held when a case was moving forward. "Or to plant something if, in fact, there wasn't actually something I missed, the more likely scenario."

Even his unselfconscious egotism was missing, John noted. Those last words were spoken matter-of-factly, no slight grin accompanying them as it did when he wanted his listeners to know that, yes, he was as brilliant as he thought he was.

He lost his train of thought as Sherlock continued: "To answer the next, obvious question, if the clue or evidence was to be found in Molly's flat, there would be no need to text, as there is no one to disturb anything there and sooner or later I would have gone to look it over again, as I have been doing periodically. At Bart's, on the other hand, whatever it is could be discovered by the wrong person and either discarded or disrupted. Thus the text, ensuring our presence at the morgue or lab before that occurs."

"It's probably a trap," John felt compelled to point out, instantly regretting his words as Sherlock turned his irritated glare on him full-force.

"Really?" Sherlock bit out, sarcasm and disdain teaming up to weigh that single word with a load of vitriol it hardly seemed strong enough to bear. "I hadn't thought of that. How stupid of me to overlook the _blindingly_ obvious."

There was the Sherlock John knew and frequently wanted to punch in the nose – good thing he'd already gotten that out of his system, or the cabbie who'd pulled up at Sherlock's frantic arm-waving would have gotten a real eyeful.

Both men fell silent after Sherlock's terse directions (_Bart's, hurry_) as they drove off, each staring out their respective side windows and lost in their own thoughts. Although John had missed his friend, missed him terribly, deeply and profoundly, what he hadn't missed was the sarcasm and eye-rolling and references to his stupidity.

Not one bloody bit.

They continued in silence for another few minutes before the cabbie swore and slowed his vehicle. John craned his head to see what the problem was; roadwork, always bloody roadwork and detours in the late spring, but at least it wasn't an accident. The cabbie, still swearing under his breath, took the indicated detour, told them it would add about ten minutes to their ride, then subsided as John acknowledged his words.

Less than five minutes later, as they drove down a poorly lit side street in the crap part of town the detour brought them to, Sherlock suddenly lurched upright, one hand going up to slam against the glass barrier between the back seat and the front as he shouted: "Driver! Stop here!"

The cab screeched to a halt, throwing John back against the seat with a jolt. He stared at Sherlock, positive his friend had finally gone mental as he opened the door and jumped out into the cold February night.

It wasn't until then that he saw her, the woman who'd apparently caught Sherlock's attention. Thin, dressed improperly for the chilly night air, slumped against the corner of the abandoned brick building as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet…

John felt his skin crawl as he shoved money at the cabbie, distractedly ordering him to wait as he, too, dashed out to join Sherlock at the woman's side.

Not just any woman; to his horror, as he reached the other two, he recognized Molly Hooper's features beneath the tangled mass of greasy auburn hair, her eyes dull, mouth slack as she continued to slump against the corner of the building. She was clad in a filthy gray tank top and scuffed black leather skirt, her legs bare of stockings. On her feet were a pair of ridiculously high-heeled red pumps, at least half a size too large for her.

All of this flickered through John's mind in a split second, the amount of time it took his horrified eyes to take in the clear sign of track marks along the insides of both her (_far too thin, covered in gooseflesh_) arms.

"Christ!" he swore when he was close enough to see the damage that had been inflicted on her. Molly, whose only crime had been to believe in the man she loved, to unconditionally do whatever he needed her to do to ensure his safety.

Molly, who was about ready to pass out, her knees sagging, but before John could reach out for her, Sherlock had already pulled her into his arms, lifting her up as she collapsed into unconsciousness, her head lolling against his shoulder.

His face had gone absolutely white, John noted absently, knowing his own skin must be paler than normal in the face of this grim outcome of their search for the missing pathologist. Still, she was alive; considering how long she'd been missing (and until the text Sherlock had just received), he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that at best someone would find her body in a shallow unmarked grave by some country roadside.

No. No thinking about the worst that could have happened – could still happen if she didn't receive prompt medical attention. Just focus on the moment at hand. Molly was alive. Molly was in the cab, cradled in Sherlock's arms, and John wasted no time in joining them in the back seat.

The cabbie, however, was voicing his objections in a loud and strenuous voice. "Hey, no prozzies!"

Sherlock, face taut with fury, rounded on him before John could do so. "This woman is in need of immediate medical attention, you cretin; surely even the most depraved flesh peddler wouldn't send a woman in her condition out in order to score a 'date,'" he sneered. "Do either of us appear desperate enough to take advantage of such a woman? No, we don't, and you know our original destination was elsewhere. So kindly keep your moralizing to yourself, especially since your wife would be very interested to know where, exactly, you contracted that case of herpes you're currently trying to keep her from finding out about. Now. _Drive_."

While Sherlock had been – justifiably – berating the cabbie, John had focused on Molly. God, she was so thin; she looked like she'd dropped at least ten pounds during the two months she'd been missing. Possibly as much as twelve or fifteen. Incongruously, he remembered when "Heroin Chic" had been all the rage on music videos, during the days of his misspent youth, and once again found himself infuriated by the idea of such a thing gaining public acceptance.

One look at Molly, who'd obviously been forced into drug use – there was no way on Earth anyone would be able convince him she'd done this to herself – should be enough to show even the most jaded person that such an idea was worse than reprehensible.

The cab lurched into motion as he continued to examine his patient, forcing his mind into clinical doctor mode instead of concerned friend mode. Breathing shallow, pulse rapid and thready, unconscious…god, the needle marks on the insides of both arms, so many of them, it was a bloody miracle she hadn't overdosed before this – no, back to doctor mode, cool and clinical, inform Sherlock…

As he opened his mouth, his friend, who had dropped back into his seat and softly taken one of Molly's hands in his own – no doubt checking her pulse as John had just done – said: "Don't bother. I am painfully aware of her condition, the symptoms of a drug overdose, and yes, the backs of her knees have track marks as well. She's been thoroughly addicted against her will, deliberately given an overdose and shoved out into the cold just in time for us to find her before she collapsed. They'll be long gone by now, having removed all traces of themselves from wherever they've been keeping her. Somewhere nearby, if not in the actual building she was standing next to." He opened up his phone and sent off a text, probably to Lestrade informing the other man of Molly's recovery.

John waited until Sherlock had shoved his mobile back into his pocket before speaking. He looked over at his friend, meeting Sherlock's cold, furious glare with one of his own. "Who would – why would anyone do something like to Molly Hooper? She's…harmless," he said, after groping after the proper word in his shell-shocked mind. _Nobody_, he'd almost said. _Not important. _

The first was rude and cruel, the second…well, judging by Sherlock's reaction to the sight of her, the way he continued to clasp her sweaty, shaking hand in his, the second was a load of shite. Of course she was important; she was their friend, a good woman who didn't deserve to have something like this happen to her – and who didn't deserve to be dismissed by anyone, even John Watson, just because she wasn't a central figure in his life.

"To get back at me, obviously," Sherlock replied, his mouth settling into a grim line as he continued to study Molly's small, undernourished and far-too-pale form. Analyzing her, deducing her, much the same way John was, when he could keep his mind in doctor mode. "Someone found out – or deduced – that she was the one to help me fake my death. Exactly twenty months ago," he added, as if that date were important.

John blinked at him while his fingers continued their automatic monitoring of her pulse. Of course that date was important. "So someone – whoever's been holding her all this time – deliberately picked tonight to send her into your path? Deliberately sent that text so you'd go to St. Bart's, hit that detour, and end up where we found her?"

Sherlock slanted a glance toward John that the doctor felt might hold a bit of honest approval as he nodded. "Exactly. Driver!" he suddenly said, raising his voice. "Turn up the heat and hurry! This woman is dying!"

Christ, so she was. Her pulse was weakening even as Sherlock spoke, her body shaking, but not quite convulsing – were they going to have to try and administer CPR in the cramped back seat of a London cab? John hoped to hell not…and his hope was granted as they abruptly turned a corner and saw the emergency room entrance of St. Bart's facing them. They must have been driving faster than he thought.

As Sherlock's door opened and he once again took the unconscious woman in his arms, John hurriedly threw some more money at the cabbie and dashed after his tall friend. He took over as soon as they burst through the A&E doors, shouting out instructions to the startled duty nurse – thank God there were no other patients in sight – and directing Sherlock toward an empty gurney.

Everything after that was a blur of motion and action and clipped comments: how they'd found her, her presumed condition, demands for medication, for assistance…and then John was politely shoved aside as the actual hospital staff took over, shunting him to the sidelines to wait alongside Sherlock, who had backed away as soon as Molly was placed on the gurney and an oxygen mask lowered over her face.

His own face was unreadable as she was wheeled away, the flustered nurse now turned back into the firm, unyielding professional, keeping them both at bay by the simple expedient of shoving her hands into their chests and assuring them that their friend was in good hands – and that someone would let them know how she was doing as soon as she was stabilized.

They slumped into the hard plastic chairs that seemed to infest all hospital waiting areas. Even though Sherlock assured John in a muttered aside that he could easily obtain doctor's scrubs and surgical masks for them, so they could at least shadow Molly during the next few hours, John restrained him. "Let them do their jobs, Sherlock," he said softly, feeling suddenly very, very old and tired, as if he'd been born a hundred years ago instead of less than fifty. "Let's wait here for Lestrade, you know he'll let us tag along and that dragon," he nodded toward the nurse, who'd returned to her station and was studiously ignoring them, "won't say a word."

**oOo**

Four hours later John found himself sitting quietly in a darkened patient room – semi-private, although he and Molly were the only occupants – waiting for her to wake up.

Lestrade had arrived at the hospital a scant twenty minutes after receiving Sherlock's text, demanding the details that the message had left out. Which, as John discovered, was terse even for Sherlock. _"Meet us as Bart's A&E, found Molly, not good."_

They were in the middle of giving Lestrade their statements – Sherlock in a fever of impatience to get to the scene before it could be further contaminated, John with growing suspicions that Molly's collapse wasn't entirely due to the drugs she'd been fed – when the cubicle where Molly had been ensconced erupted into chaos.

Sherlock was on his feet in a shot, shoving aside the curtain that the nurse had just hurriedly closed, John and Lestrade hard on his heels.

It was still so hard to believe, to process, the tragedy that had followed. God, there had been so much blood...and yet here she was, still alive, still unconscious from a combination of the overdose of heroin and the sedatives she'd been given and the sheer physical abuses her body had undergone during her two months of captivity.

He and Lestrade had been forced to literally drag Sherlock out of the cubicle, shouting at him to let the doctors do their work. His face had been white, frozen with a combination of shock and what John now knew was not only fear but a terrible realization once the reason for Molly's haemorrhaging became clear.

She was having a miscarriage.

Lestrade appropriated a small conference room for them, with the help of a sympathetic nurse, a friend of Molly's who had been politely ejected from the cubicle along with the others when she found herself overwhelmed by the other woman's condition. It was she who made sure the doctor knew where they were and practically dragged him there herself as soon as Molly was stabilized, to give his report to the three men most anxious to hear it.

They already knew about the overdose and the miscarriage. But the rest...It was like a shopping list from hell. As the list went on and on, John knew his dismay and horror wouldn't need to be deduced by a mind as sharp as Sherlock's as it was made painfully clear exactly what sort of a nightmare their friend and pathologist had undergone during the past two months.

She was out of immediate danger, had responded well to the naloxone she'd been given once it was confirmed that she'd been given an overdose of heroin, and the prognosis was cautiously optimistic for her eventual recovery. The haemorrhaging had been brought under control and physically she seemed in line to recover fully from that trauma as well.

If only that was the end of it.

After the doctor finished his update and left them, John's mind kept replaying the litany of abuses over and over again. As if sheer repetition would change things, or sink them into his consciousness and erase the disbelief he so desperately wanted to feel.

Heroin overdose, with signs of multiple injections inside both elbows and behind both knees.

Collapsed veins in all locations from same.

Malnutrition.

Severe dehydration.

Exposure.

Bruising on wrists consistent with forcible restraint.

Facial bruising, which John hadn't noted before, too focused on her too-thin arms and respiratory trauma to notice.

Evidence of repeated sexual assault – the doctor had been in the process of taking the necessary swabs and samples when Molly's body had finally broken down, when the outrages perpetrated against her had caused her to lose the child she was carrying.

As if the fucking poison she'd had forced into her system wasn't enough of an outrage; as if kidnapping and sexual assault wasn't damaging enough to anyone's psyche, to undergo such a horrific thing...

Had she even known she was pregnant? Was the child conceived before or after her kidnapping?

Questions Lestrade asked of the doctor before he left, while Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent. Unclear at this time, had been the unhelpful answer. The patient appeared to have been somewhere between six weeks and three months along when she miscarried. Until Molly had recovered enough to answer some questions, there was no way of knowing the answer. Especially with the amount of drugs that had been forced into her system over the two-month period of her captivity.

She might already have been pregnant when she was taken. John's mind finally tore itself away from the other doctor's grim list and latched onto the worst aspect of this entire fucking nightmare.

If she was already pregnant, then the child might not be the result of rape. He thought he was going to be sick, right there in the conference room, but managed through years of practice – a wartime surgeon had to have an iron stomach, after all – to hold onto his supper as he tried to cope with the fact that it could have been a baby she _wanted_.

But who could the father have been? His mind flitted back over the past year and a half – had she even gone on a date since Sherlock's "death"?

No, Molly definitely hadn't gone out with anyone since long before Sherlock jumped off the roof of this very hospital. John might have been a crap friend when he was lost in the fog of his own grief over his friend's "death", but he'd kept up with her enough to know that much.

He'd assumed it was because she was grieving Sherlock the same way the rest of them were, with the added stress of an unrequited love on her part. After all, if the man you've obviously been pining after for years suddenly offs himself, how long is it likely to be before you're ready to date again?

The man she'd been pining after...Suddenly it was as if John had been doused in a deluge of icy water. Everything went very still, the only sound the sudden pounding of his heart as he turned his head to stare at Sherlock.

Molly had helped him fake his death.

Molly hadn't gone on so much as a single lunch-date since that awful day.

Molly knew Sherlock was alive the entire time.

Sherlock had stayed in her flat, by his own admission, immediately after that horrible, horrible day, and multiple times during the course of the following eighteen months.

Including a short stay before he left for the Continent.

One month before Molly's abduction.

"Christ," he breathed. "No, Sherlock..."

"Yes, John," his friend replied, his voice even, eyes and face giving nothing away, speaking softly even though Lestrade had excused himself and left the room in order to make a phone call. "It's very possible that I was the father of that child. DNA analysis will clarify that possibility. If, of course, it is deemed necessary."

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, John Watson felt he could say to that. For once, he understood exactly what Sherlock was saying.

If the fetus was determined to be two months or less in development when Molly had miscarried, a DNA scan could be performed to determine paternity, in order to assist with the charges to be leveled against whatever scum had done this to their friend.

If, however, the child were proven to have been closer to three months along…well. Different matter entirely.

"Christ," John swore again, planting his elbows on the table and pressing the heels of his hands against his tightly-closed eyes. "Sherlock, I'm…"

"It's Molly you should be concerned with," the other man cut in, his voice gone from simply uninflected to icy as if he'd flipped a switch. "She's gone through two months of pure hell, and all because of me." He fell silent, then added in a low, almost inaudible voice: "I failed her, John."

There was something in Sherlock's voice, something John had never heard before – regret, guilt, self-loathing, all of that and a bitterness John recognized all too well from his own wartime experiences.

"She would have helped you even if she knew this was going to happen to her," he said after a moment's silence, speaking in the same hushed tones Sherlock was employing. Knowing his words would have absolutely no effect but determined to try all the same. "She would have," John repeated when Sherlock made no reply, turning to face his friend, voice trailing off into silence as he beheld the expression on the other man's face.

Every emotion that had been in his voice was reflected in his eyes, the downward twist of his lips, the tension fairly radiating off his body.

When John opened his mouth, Sherlock raised an imperative hand, silencing him before the words could leave his lips. "Don't say it, John," Sherlock snarled as he vaulted to his feet and began pacing agitated circles around the conference room table. "Don't say it isn't my fault, when clearly it is. Knowing that she would have helped me even if she'd known the consequences...that doesn't lessen my culpability. Had I known there could be repercussions of this nature, I can assure you, I would have found another way to save my selfish ass. Or not."

John pitied whoever had done this to Molly, because they were about to face the wrath of a man who blamed himself for what had happened to someone he held in the highest regard – and John had witnessed first-hand how Sherlock reacted when someone hurt a person he cared about. There was one incident in particular that came to mind, of a man being beaten and thrown out of a second-floor window for putting his hands on Mrs. Hudson.

And she hadn't been damaged nearly as badly as Molly.

The door opened and Lestrade started to reenter the room, stopping abruptly as he found himself almost nose-to-nose with Sherlock. "She was living in that building, staying there, really, can't call what she's been forced into 'living." Lestrade's lips twisted in an expression of disgust as he spoke. "Squalid doesn't begin to cover it. I've got my best men going over it now, but Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind..."

He was out the door before the detective inspector finished speaking, John hard on his heels. Before he'd gone more than a few steps, however, Sherlock turned around and locked gazes with him. "Stay with her," he ordered, then added in a softer tone, almost pleading: "Please, John. Someone should…be with her. When she wakes up."

John nodded, feeling a sudden prickling in the backs of his eyes that he ignored as best he could. Sherlock's quiet request spoke volumes. He watched as Lestrade followed him, pausing only long enough to clap a hand on John's arm in a brief gesture of sympathy. Then he was gone as well, leaving John to follow Molly's nurse friend – her name was Mary something, he recalled vaguely – to the room where he now sat and waited.


	3. Down From the High

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the lovely, encouraging reviews on this twisted bit of work. I am already finished with the first six chapters and hard at work on chapter 7. There will be at least 2 or 3 chapters after that, plus I'll probably throw in an epilogue. If you're good. :)_

* * *

It hurt. It all hurt, head to toes, and God, the itching under her skin, like something small with a million legs and all its cousins and mates and children were crawling around with it...

And her abdomen, it ached, cramped, like she was on the worst period ever but she hadn't even had a period since this nightmare began, or had she? So hard to remember, to hold onto the fragments of reality she'd been allowed to reside in, in between _him_ and the other, Knife Man, Seb, holding her down and forcing the needles into her veins or themselves between her legs…

But at least it wasn't cold, she scolded herself as she huddled deeper under the warm, clean blankets and sheets. She held onto the positives as best she could, the way she always did, even when _he_ was doing his damndest to rip the optimism right out of her, replace it with his own curdling despair and madness.

Wait, it wasn't cold…why wasn't it cold? Where did this warmth come from, the cleanness she hadn't felt in so long, the softness of a bed beneath her body and not just a bare mat on a hard floor…

Lights. Too bright…where was she? Disoriented, confused, shaking with pain and the itchy-scratchy feeling she recognized as symptomatic of coming down from one of her enforced highs, she tried to sit up, only to fall back weakly against the pillow with a low moan tearing itself from her lips.

The rustling of cloth, sudden movement in the room. She froze, her breathing gone ragged, heartbeat speeding up, all of the beeping noises on the monitors increasing in pitch and speed…

Monitors. A hospital? She was in hospital? How…when…

She opened her eyes again, turned her head and beheld the relieved, tentatively smiling face of a man she'd never hoped to see again.

John Watson, sitting by her bedside, reaching out with gentle hands to clasp her own in his. "Hey, Molly," he said softly as he continued to smile at her. "Welcome back. We've missed you, yeah?"

She stared at him incredulously for a long, long moment, before bursting into tears.

**oOo**

John held tightly to Molly's hand but came no closer, unsure whether an attempt to hug her would be greeted with relief or repulsion. He'd never dealt with patients going through withdrawal, or a woman who'd been repeatedly raped; his wartime experiences seemed absolutely useless at a time like this.

Even his A&E experience had been more along the lines of treating head injuries and the flu and the odd burst appendix. Pregnant women he'd certainly triaged and sent on to OB, but Molly had undergone a miscarriage and John had no idea if she even knew she'd been pregnant.

He'd never been so relieved to see an ex-girlfriend in his life when Dr. Sarah Sawyer knocked and entered the room.

He'd contacted her via text immediately after Sherlock and Lestrade had gone off to begin the hunt for Molly's kidnappers. He and Sarah had broken up amicably enough that he felt comfortable seeking her expertise in this matter. In fact, she'd heard about Molly's disappearance and gotten in touch with him immediately after it happened, offering her sympathies and willingness to help in any way she could. Two months ago he'd only been able to thank her and tell her that if something came up, he'd let her know. Now, he desperately wanted someone he trusted telling him how well Molly was going to recover from all she'd gone through.

Thank God Sarah had privileges here. Thank God she was experienced in dealing with patients recovering from drug overdoses and all the other areas where John found himself sorely lacking.

Thank God she'd been the one to break up with him and not the other way round, or he doubted she'd have come, patient needing her or not. Experience told him that when he was the one doing the dumping it was best to steer clear of the other party for a good, long time. Forever, if possible.

"Hullo, Molly, I'm Dr. Sawyer, an old friend of John's," she was saying as he made to get out of her way. "Please call me Sarah."

Molly's grip on John's hand, which had been loose at best, tightened as she stared warily at the newcomer. Of course; she'd never met the other woman, how could he be so stupid as to forget?

Sarah waved him back into his seat and remained standing just behind him. "You're at St. Bart's, Molly," she said, her voice calm and soothing. Her bedside manner had always been impeccable, John remembered fondly. "John asked me to come and give you a look over before the police come to take your statement. Do you think that would be all right?"

Molly glanced at John, who offered an encouraging nod, then back at Sarah. "Okay," she said, her voice a raspy whisper. Like she hadn't used it for a good long while.

He felt his blood boiling all over again; whoever had done this to her, he hoped Sherlock had a second-story window to toss the bastards out of before Lestrade hauled them off to a well-deserved prison stint. Or a third story window, or even a fourth…

"If you'd like John to stay, that would be fine," Sarah continued. "Or I can ask him to wait outside in the hall." She hesitated before explaining: "Molly, I don't know how much you remember right now, but I'm afraid this exam will involve a pelvic if you feel you're up to that much."

Her grip became painful; panic flashed across Molly's face then vanished as she visibly took hold of herself. "I remember enough," she said flatly, her eyes going distant and a tremor shaking her body for a brief moment. The shaking increased, translated itself to her voice as tears pooled in her eyes, still locked with John's. "He said...he said it was time to honor his w-word and g-give me back to Sh-sherlock," she said in a near whisper.

"Who?" John asked without meaning to. This wasn't supposed to be an interrogation, not without Lestrade or a policewoman present to take Molly's statement, but if she could tell them who her kidnapper or kidnappers were, it would go a long way toward wrapping this ugly mess up, at least on the official side of things.

Molly turned her head away. "Jim," she whispered, a name that sent John's heart plummeting down into his stomach, his intestines, right into his bloody shoes. "Moriarty."

Then the sobs began in earnest and Sarah was recommending a sedative and a pass on the physical examination and John was still holding Molly's hand, hanging on for dear life as his head spun and he fumbled his mobile out with his free hand.

He called up Sherlock's number and clumsily typed in one word before pressing send.

_Moriarty._

**oOo**

Sherlock stared down at the screen on his mobile, and a string of expletives passed through his lips before he turned to glare at Lestrade, who'd hurried to his side as soon as the first swear burst out of his mouth.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

He turned the phone so Lestrade could read the screen. "I saw him shoot his brains out on the roof of St. Bart's so I couldn't force him to call off the snipers," he snarled before thrusting the phone back into his pocket, although Lestrade had the distinct impression he'd rather have hurled it at the nearest wall.

"I presumed his death went unreported due to my brother Mycroft's machinations," Sherlock continued, raking agitated fingers through the short brush of his hair. He'd chopped off his signature curls at some point, no doubt as part of a disguise, the same reason Lestrade assumed he'd dyed it that awful ginger shade that was being allowed to fade out naturally. "Stupid, I never even asked, and now he's done _this_ to Molly." He punctuated his words with a savage kick to the rickety chair on his right side; it splintered and toppled over to the filthy carpeting. "I should have shot him myself before I jumped just to be sure."

The bed-sit contained no clues, no evidence, nothing that would lead them to Molly's kidnappers. There was plenty of evidence that Molly herself had been here, including some items Sherlock declared had been deliberately left behind for him to find. Strands of her hair. Buttons torn from a knitted cardigan that had once been white and – no proof of this but strongly believed to be true – decorated with clusters of cherries.

A bloodstained handprint on the wall beside the front door. Deliberately planted; you didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to tell that much, the print was so clear and evenly placed that it couldn't have been what it initially looked like – the mute evidence of some kind of struggle. No, Lestrade had to agree with Sherlock even before the spatter analyst confirmed their mutual deduction.

Molly's kidnappers had gone to great lengths to ensure that no one missed the fact that she'd been held there. Just as they'd gone to equally great lengths to ensure that no sign of any other human being remained in the flat. No fingerprints. No hairs that didn't belong to Molly, although a full analysis would still be run on each and every fucking strand they found just to be sure.

And now this. Lestrade wanted to join Sherlock as he methodically began punching the wall next to the door that led to the bathroom. Moriarty. Not dead as reported by Sherlock two months ago.

Moriarty, alive.

Alive and subjecting Molly Hooper to all this…

Lestrade had been a copper for decades, had thought he'd long since passed the point where anything could surprise or sicken him.

God, he was so wrong. So goddamned wrong.

"Sherlock," he said, then repeated it louder when the other man ignored him, continued punching a hole in the wall while the crime scene techs and analysts and uniformed officers stared at him with open mouths and wide eyes. "Sherlock! That isn't going to get us any closer to finding him."

_That caught his attention,_ Lestrade thought wryly as Sherlock's fist stopped in mid-punch. So much for Mr. Cold-and-Logical-Sentiment-Is-Crap Sherlock Holmes.

It had been clear to Lestrade since Sherlock's return from the dead – and what a day _that_ had been! – that it wasn't just the fact that Molly Hooper had gone missing that was eating at the man. It wasn't even the guilt he (for once) didn't bother to try and hide, or his smoldering anger towards her kidnappers (which everyone who knew the kindhearted pathologist shared).

No, there'd been something else, something Lestrade had never expected to see, even with the obvious changes Sherlock had gone through during his brief period of being dead.

John Watson had started it; was Molly Hooper going to be the one to finish it? Turning Sherlock Holmes into not only a great man, but a good one?

And who exactly, he found himself wondering as Sherlock turned and stalked out of the sleazy flat like a king too good for such a squalid kingdom, was the father of the baby Molly had just lost? Because he could count as well as the next man and when the doctor said "between six weeks and three months," his ears had perked up, although he'd done his best not to let Sherlock know how much that had caught his attention.

Not that there was any point to hiding anything from the consulting detective (not a fake, all charges dropped, Richard Brooke proven to be the lie after all), but still. A man had to try.

A man also, he concluded as he listened with half an ear to the lead forensics specialist as he gave his preliminary report, had to know when to keep shut.

If Sherlock knew anything about who the potential father of that poor child had been, if it turned out not to be related to her kidnapping and the abuses that had been heaped on Molly's mind and body during her captivity – then it wasn't any of Lestrade's business.

For the sake of them all, however, he prayed, sincerely prayed, that the baby she'd lost had been the result of rape. The emotional damage would still be severe, but if the child had been conceived in something closer to love, well...

He couldn't – wouldn't – allow himself to dwell on the questions that had been raised regarding the child's potential parentage. If it turned out to be relevant to the case, he'd deal with it then.

He called the hospital to check on Molly's condition; hearing that she'd been sedated and was currently sleeping, he agreed that yes, he could wait until the morning to question her further regarding her kidnapping. Yes, he gave permission for John Watson to remain with her during the night if he so desired; he was a close friend, had brought her in, matter of fact and didn't she know that? Yes, there would be a police presence during her entire stay as well – although he didn't bother to inform her that Molly's kidnapper's name had been revealed, only that it was possible she was still in danger.

No, there were no relatives to inform.

As the nurse started to rattle off another series of questions, he felt his patience giving out. "Look, I'll be round in the morning, but what you're asking me...that's questions for her emergency contact to answer, not the police!"

He fell silent as he heard the woman's quiet response. Pulled the mobile away from his ear and stared at it. Put it back in time to hear the nurse asking if he'd heard her.

Apparently Sherlock Holmes was Molly's emergency contact. Had been since a few months before his supposed suicide – and never changed afterward.

Huh. Imagine that.

**oOo**

He knows he should go back to the hospital. At the very least, he is her emergency contact, although he still has no recollection of agreeing to any such thing. His mobile keeps ringing; he knows it is the hospital and Lestrade and probably John all trying to reach him, but he ignores it. He should be with her, do something to help her through this, but he can't bring himself to return. John is there, he counsels himself. John will know what to do, how best to help her.

John has never had the misfortune of being a recovering addict, the cold, logical part of his mind feels constrained to point out, even though it is the part he least expects to advocate his ongoing presence in Molly's life after he's brought her nothing but pain and sorrow.

It is, instead, the emotional part of himself, the part he disdains, tries to ignore, habitually pretends he does not have, that is urging him to run as far and as fast as he can before he does more damage. Because that part of him knows that Molly will wake up when this is all over and discover what a mistake it was to help him, to care for him...

To love him.

She will realize her error and she will order him out of her life; why wait, why not spare her further pain and simply remove himself so she won't have to do so? He has never told her how he feels about her, never said the words she clearly longs to hear from him – words he, himself, is unsure apply. He cares about her, but if it were John in her place, would he feel any less guilt, any less shame and hurt and anger?

It is not a perfect analogy, of course, because no matter what anyone else thinks, no matter what the press has insinuated, he and John have never been sexually intimate. And of course John could never become pregnant even if they had crossed that particular line.

No, not a perfect analogy at all. Not even close. His feelings for John Watson are as simple and straightforward as the man himself: they are friends, friends who would willingly kill or die for one another.

Molly is...something entirely too complex for him to want to deal with. Withdrawing himself from her life would be as much for his own benefit as it would be hers, because then he could distance himself from the confusing welter of emotions clamoring for his attention.

Emotions he has been trying to ignore, to deny, since long before Molly was taken by Moriarty and tortured. His brother was right; caring is not an advantage.

However, once sentiment has been allowed to infiltrate his mind and – much as it pains him to admit he has one – his heart, it turns out to be much more difficult to dislodge than he could ever have imagined. Mrs. Hudson, John, even Lestrade all paved the way for the path Molly Hooper has taken. Awkward, eager, silly Molly Hooper.

Dependable, steady, loyal Molly Hooper. Loving Molly Hooper.

Whom he has hurt so terribly by giving in to his need for contact during his "death," by allowing her to become so close to him...and himself to become so close to her.

Isn't it for the best if he ends that closeness? For both of them?

He will continue to investigate her case, of course. No matter how much she undoubtedly loathes him – or will once she regains full use of her faculties, once the long road to recovery begins – he will not remove himself from the case. He will find Jim Moriarty and whoever helped him perpetrate this outrage – most likely one Sebastian "Seb" Moran whom Sherlock was just beginning to investigate before his abrupt return to London two months ago. He will find them and he will…do whatever it takes. Whatever he has to do to ensure that neither of them will be able to hurt Molly ever again.

He feels that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that refuses to go away no matter how desperately he tries. The body is just transport for the mind, but since he has begun allowing sentiment back into his life his body refuses to allow itself to be ignored the way it used to.

He tries to tell himself it is no matter; when this case is over, when Molly is safe and Moriarty and Moran are imprisoned (or dead, much better for all concerned if they end up dead), he will no longer be a part of her life. Perhaps he will return to the Continent, or even the US or South America. He can convince Mycroft to release his trust fund if he promises to report anything of interest back to the British government, he can investigate international cases and leave all this behind him.

He can escape back to the solitary life he lead before sentiment sunk its claws deep into his heart. John has lived without him for nearly two years, and certainly for much longer before ever meeting him in the first place; he will survive, finally find that woman he's always been seeking, the one he will marry and settle down and raise children with.

He already knows Molly will be better off without him. She, too, will find someone who can return the abundant love she holds in her heart. He has been selfish, keeping her close and yet at arm's length (except for that one, glorious night, the night their child had been conceived, when his defenses had crumbled and Molly had been there and accepted him into her body). She deserves better.

As he thinks these things, riding in a cab on his way back to his flat so he can process the scant evidence Moriarty has deigned to leave them, to search through his mind palace for further clues to where the man might have gone now that Sherlock knows he isn't actually dead, he realizes he is lying to himself.

Yes, Molly will certainly hate him. Yes, she will be better off without him.

But it is as he'd once feared; he has become addicted to her, to the sentiment he once scorned, and he can no more cut himself out of her life than he can cut off his right arm. Even if she does reject him and hate him, he must stay and face her vitriol. Take his punishment.

Besides, if he runs, John will hunt him down and drag him back to face the music.

He leans forward and tells the cabbie to take him to St. Bart's instead of Baker Street.

Sentiment has won. And logic, ironically enough, is the vessel that brought him to this particular surrender.

**oOo**

Molly woke up for the second time to find John Watson slumped in the chair by her bedside, asleep.

Snoring.

Even though she could still feel the itchy-scratchy sensation she knew, with the clinical part of her mind, was nothing but a symptom of the withdrawal she was currently undergoing, even though her eyes were bleary and her hands were shaking and her mouth tasted foul, she still managed a smile at the sight.

A slight sound from the vicinity of the door caught her attention; a nurse probably, or doctor or a policeman come to ask her the million and one questions that must need answering...

Her shaking increased at the thought, her anxiety skyrocketing as she thought about having to tell someone, no matter who, what she'd been forced to endure for the past...how long had it been?

"Two months. You were missing for two months."

She felt her heart give a lurch at the sound of that familiar, dearly missed baritone. Her eyes flew up and she focused on his presence near the door, reached a trembling hand out to him and was grateful, so very, very grateful when he moved forward and wrapped his long fingers around hers and lowered himself to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, careful to avoid jostling John's sprawling form.

"Sherlock," she whispered, feeling the tears spring into her eyes and not caring if he saw her crying. She vaguely remembered seeing him...somewhere...before the drugs overwhelmed her system and she crashed into unconsciousness. Remembered seeing his face and praying it wasn't an hallucination. "You found me. Thank you."

His fingers tightened on hers and she saw a fleeting frown cross his face.

Molly immediately tensed; had she said something wrong, was he angry with her, did he blame her...?

He must have read the sudden flood of self-doubt in her eyes and body language, because his frown disappeared as rapidly as it had appeared, replaced by the gentlest expression she'd ever seen him wear.

Second gentlest, she corrected herself. He'd been so tender during their night together…

Oh God. Their night together...and then she'd let _him_, let Jim Moriarty touch her and put drugs into her body and use her over and over again, him and Sebastian Moran, and they'd laughed at her and told her how weak she was, how Sherlock would mock her and hate her for forcing him to come out of hiding...

"Stop it, Molly. None of this is your fault. No matter what they might have told you, none of it is your fault. You have to believe that."

More tears slipped from her eyes as she met his gaze. The ice that normally frosted his eyes had melted, and she was stunned to see something very like guilt in those blue-green orbs. "But some of it is," she whispered, tugging her hand from his grip, turning her head away and staring unseeingly toward the still-drawn shades over the room's window. "I was...I didn't take my p-pills very regularly, sometimes I...I would forget, and I didn't have any condoms in my flat and I should have...should have gone out to get some but I didn't want to r-ruin the moment, didn't w-want you to ch-change your m-mind..."

She broke down into full-on sobs, curling up into herself as she understood, finally what the pain and cramping in her midsection meant. "Oh, God, Sherlock, I lost our baby, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry, and I couldn't stop them, I tried but I didn't...I couldn't..."

**oOo**

Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to comfort Molly. How does one help a woman who has just realized that she's had a miscarriage, that blames herself for the pregnancy and for not being physically strong enough to fight off the depredations of two grown men who repeatedly raped her and forced drugs into her system? He was paralyzed, frozen in place, one hand hovering over her hip, the other clenching the fabric of his trousers so tightly he could feel his nails digging into the flesh beneath the fabric.

Thank God for John. Molly's sobs had awoken him, and he'd started to rise, no doubt to give the two of them privacy, when Molly's confession had rooted him in place. And now that Sherlock found himself unable to do more than stare helplessly down at this remarkable woman, immobilized by his own fears that he would do something wrong and make the situation worse, John knew what to do. John was the one to step in, to gently nudge Sherlock aside and take Molly in his arms and whisper soothing words into her ear and brush her hair away from her face and wipe away her tears.

_He_ should be doing these things for her, the woman who has somehow managed to transform herself – he could certainly take no credit – from colleague to friend to lover.

He should, but he couldn't. He had no right, not when he was truly the one to blame for all this. Wouldn't she turn from his touch in revulsion, wouldn't she hit him and scream at him, direct the blame she was mistakenly placing on herself where it truly belonged – squarely on his shoulders?

Sherlock rose to his feet, stumbled back from the bed as the door opened and the day nurse rushed in to check on why Molly's vitals had suddenly spiked. He stood aside as she conferred with John, automatically deferring to his authority even though he had no privileges at St. Bart's.

He stood by and watched with mounting, self-directed frustration as a sedative was administered and Molly was once again allowed so sink back into unconsciousness. A female doctor he vaguely recognized rushed into the room a few minutes later and conferred with John – called him "John," in fact, not "Dr. Watson" and it was then that he recalled who she was, one of John's former flames, name deleted once the two of them had broken off their relationship, although she had been involved in the business of "The Blind Banker," as John had labeled the case on his blog.

His mind was rambling, focusing on trivialities as a way to compensate for the continuing helplessness that wracked his mind and body. He was equally wracked with indecision; should he stay or leave? Not just the room, but her life…

"Sherlock, let's go. She'll sleep for a few hours and when she wakes up Sarah will introduce her to Dr. Forester. She's the rape counselor on staff who's been assigned to Molly's case. Sarah doesn't think Molly should talk to the police – even Greg or Sally – until she's talked to the counselor first."

John's voice was gentle, unaccusatory, as were his eyes when Sherlock felt capable of meeting them.

He allowed John to take him by the arm and guide him out of the room, their roles suddenly reversed, and Sherlock let it happen.

Even when the doctor had originally recited that devastating list of the abuses Molly had gone through, even when Moriarty was revealed to be behind it all...none of that had sent him reeling the way Molly's revelation had.

What had been abstract, a mere possibility, had been confirmed.

He'd inadvertently fathered a child three months ago, and now that child was gone.

No, not gone. The cold, precise part of his mind sneered at him for resorting to euphemisms to try and ease the shock of the truth.

The child wasn't "gone," it was dead.

Molly had known she was pregnant, and if Molly had known, then Moriarty had known as well.

He'd known about her condition, and addicted her to heroin and raped and otherwise abused her in spite of that knowledge.

The odds of that bastard surviving their next meeting had just gone down to zero.

**oOo**

Sherlock didn't realize he was shaking until John hauled him suddenly into an empty patient room instead of continuing on wherever they'd been going before then.

He continued walking blindly forward until stopped by the combination heating/air conditioning unit beneath the window. His hands balled into fists by his sides as he gazed blankly out the window, breathing heavily and feeling nothing but pure, unadulterated rage.

John's hand on his shoulder was meant to be comforting, but all it did was act as physical reminder of his own damnable helplessness. He shrugged it off and started to turn away, but apparently John was in full doctor mode and wasn't going to just let his friend be.

"Sherlock." The hand was back on his shoulder, this time to stay since the grip was considerably tighter this time. "You have to get control of yourself or you'll end up with a stress-induced stroke."

"I'm going to kill him, John," Sherlock replied – not the angry snarl his friend might have expected, but calmly, evenly. As if describing the state of the weather. "Then I'm going to kill Sebastian Moran and anyone else that was involved. If the man my brother had watching Molly hadn't already had his throat slit, I would do it myself for letting himself be outmaneuvered like that."

John was silent for a long moment, long enough that Sherlock thought he might not say anything further. He could possibly overpower the other man – they'd never actually tested each other in combat, to see whose training would win out if push came to shove – but even through the rage thrumming in his veins he knew what a bad idea that would be. Fighting with his best friend in the very hospital where Molly lay in her sedated sleep was no way to honor the memory of the child they'd lost.

"Sherlock, you have to keep your head, you know that," John finally said, offering up a tired laugh as he scrubbed his free hand over his face. "Christ, listen to me, telling you not to get all emotional. And don't," he added, turning to face Sherlock as he opened his mouth to protest John's choice of words. "Just...don't. You can lie to everyone else in the world, but don't lie to me. You're hurting just as badly as Molly is right now."

Sherlock glared at that blatant overstatement of the facts. "Really, John? Am I? Because to the best of my recollection, I'm not the one who was kidnapped, beaten, drugged and repeatedly raped to the point where I miscarried and nearly died."

"Hurting emotionally, Sherlock," John replied as he unflinchingly returned his friend's gaze. "There's no way you're going to be able to convince me you don't care about losing the baby."

Something deep inside Sherlock's psyche – his heart and soul, others would undoubtedly term it – wanted to crumple into his friend's arms and weep. Wanted to accept the comfort and sympathy John was offering.

He forced it down, locked it away and did his level best to freeze the hurt and anger – the rage – into something manageable. Something that wouldn't cause him to make mistakes.

Because if he made any more mistakes, it was Molly who would bear the brunt of the consequences. "He left us clues," he said, knowing from John's confused expression that this wasn't exactly the response the other man had been expecting. "Deliberate clues. He lead us to that flat and practically waltzed the police around it in order to flaunt how he'd kept Molly prisoner there."

His eyes burning with a combination of tamped-down rage and detectival fever, he concluded: "But it wasn't their true base of operations. When we find that, we'll find them."

John nodded, chin firm and unyielding. Reliable, stalwart John, always ready to wade in where angels feared to tread. Especially if a friend was in need of assistance. "Right. So where do we start?"

Sherlock's eyes lowered and he shifted his feet uncomfortably. "With Molly. We can't begin the search for Moriarty and Moran until she can tell us everything she remembers. The key to finding them lies within her memories."

John swallowed as he realized what Sherlock was saying. "I have to be in the room when she gives her statement," Sherlock confirmed. "I have to hear it all, every word, every detail."

He could see it in John's eyes, the doubt warring with the understanding. Finally his friend nodded. "Guess we'd better give Greg a call then."

As if in response to John's words, Sherlock's mobile rang and he pulled it from his pocket, staring down at the screen.

With a growing sense of dread – and deja vu – John asked: "Is it..."

"Yes," was Sherlock's curt response. He read out the message, his voice and face expressionless. "_Good, you found her. Too bad you won't be able to find me as easily."_

A taunt. And a challenge.

One Sherlock Holmes had no intention of either ignoring or failing.


	4. Walking On Broken Glass

_A/N: Warnings for graphic noncon and forced drug use in this chapters, not just references to same. Heavy waters ahead, folks. Thanks for all your lovely reviews and support, they really do mean the world._

* * *

They are finally, blessedly gone. She is alone, she can roll over and go back to sleep if she wants to, although she doesn't think she'll ever be able to sleep again. No matter how exhausted she is from her police interview.

Retelling her story to the sympathetic ears of DI Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan has been one of the hardest things she's ever done in her life.

Retelling that story while Sherlock was in the room?

Agony. But necessary. If he hadn't been there, she would have insisted on Lestrade hunting him down and requiring him to sit in. Because, no offense to Greg or Sally, but Sherlock is the one she trusts to find Moriarty and deal with him, not the police. Sherlock is the reason she is able to force herself to tell everything, leaving out not the tiniest detail out, knowing that he will recognize the important facts and use them to bring her captors to justice.

Her _captors_. Tears spring to her eyes; she has never cried so much in her life, and why? Self-pity mostly, she tells herself. Weakness.

She hides from the most painful truth by focusing on these other emotions. She is grieving, grieving the child she and Sherlock inadvertently made – all her fault, the pregnancy was all her fault; even if Sherlock insists it wasn't, she knows better – and she does not want to think about that.

Not now, maybe not ever. No matter what the stupid rape counselor says.

She tries to focus on something, anything else, and her mind cooperates in the cruelest way possible: by offering up the memories of the events that lead to her miscarriage.

They arise unbidden; why can't she be like Sherlock and just delete the things she doesn't want, doesn't _need_ cluttering up her mental hard drive? The things that hurt her, sleeping and waking, that cause almost as much pain as the withdrawal symptoms from the two solid months she'd been force-fed heroin, leaving her as much an addict as any voluntary user? She has already given her statement, told Sherlock (and the police) everything; there is no longer any need for her to keep those memories.

Unfortunately she is not Sherlock, she is not a machine, and she is too terrified of becoming a true addict, of developing a dependency on mind-numbers and painkillers to allow herself any more pharmaceutical types of relief, no matter how temporary the doctors and nurses and John Watson promise her they will be.

One look into Sherlock's eyes and she knows that he understands...and approves of her self-denial. So she continues to refuse all sedatives after those first two doses and any pain medication stronger than paracetamol.

She is alone now, however, and wondering if refusing such temporary comfort is such a good idea. The memories threaten to overwhelm her, good and bad. Even the ones that make her feel proud of herself, that give her a warm feeling of accomplishment, of knowing she mattered to the one person in the world whose opinion she valued above all others.

_You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you._

The words bring as warm a glow to her today as the night he first spoke them. The words that follow, however...she twists and turns in her bed, half-asleep and moaning with the pain hammering through her body, the craving lodged deep inside her veins from the needles needles needles jabbed into the insides of her elbows and the backs of her knees for days and weeks and months...

_But you were right. I'm not okay._

No, he wasn't okay on that night, and the pride she felt at having deduced something about Sherlock withered as she realized just how bad off he was.

_I think I'm going to die._

Only he isn't dead, she has saved him, kept him and his secret safe safe safe the way she promised she would, the way she always would.

The pride dies as she remembers that she hadn't, after all.

Jim Moriarty had discovered that secret. Taken her away and made her share all the details, not willingly, no, never willingly, but the poison in her veins, while not a truth serum, lowers all inhibitions and barriers. Common sense and self-control drain out of her like water from a bath and she tells it all. All of it, every detail, and not just because of the drugs, the drugs, the lovely fire Jim gifts her with, punishes her with, no, not just because of them, but because she is weak and foolish and wants to make the in-between pain stop.

_Make it all stop, please, please make it stop, I'll be good, I'm a good girl, I've always been a good girl, it's not my fault, please, Sherlock, don't hate me, he already knew you were alive, I didn't give it away, he already knew, he just wanted me to tell him the details even though he knew them, too, so bloody smart and cruel, he just wanted to make me give up everything I knew, please, don't..._

The other memories burn and sear their way through her consciousness no matter how hard she twists mind and body to get away from them.

Just as she twisted mind and body to get away from _him_…

_Please, Jim, please don't…_

Her own voice, high and frightened and pleading.

_Oh, Molly, you said 'please, Jim' before, don't you remember?_

His voice, pitched low and mocking with an undercurrent of barely-repressed fury that sends a series of uncontrolled shivers over her body, lying on the cold, filthy cement floor of the parking garage's maintenance room.

_You said 'please, Jim' and 'more, Jim' and 'lick my pussy, Jim' and 'fuck me harder, Jim' and such a lovely, lovely time we had, that one night we shared. Before you let _him_ convince you of the lie I fed him._

The anger in his voice growing, deepening; spiking the fear running through her veins, evoking tremors and the mindless desire to flee.

_You knew I wasn't gay, but you believed him over me and dumped me and yelled at me for lying to you and using you and even though it was all true – even though I did everything you accused me of – even though it was just a _game_, Molly love…_

His breath hot in her ear as he leans forward, lowering his chest until it is pressed solidly against hers, his voice a dangerous growl that rises to a shout by his last word.

_I. Don't. Like. To. Lose. __**Ever**__. _

The crushing sensation easing as he sits back up in his original position, straddling her hips as he continues to speak in a more normal tone of voice.

_Even so, I might have just left it at that…I did, remember? For a loooong time, I let you be. Two whole years where the only punishment you received was knowing that you'd willingly fucked a murdering madman. But then you had to go and help _him_ cheat his way out of the game I'd set up, the one _I _was supposed to win._

Her body pinned beneath his, arms tied at the wrist and twisted painfully behind her back. The seeping cold from the cement floor beneath her. The light glinting off the blade of the knife he held so casually in one hand. The pressure of his other hand spread flat against the center of her exposed chest.

The sight of her shredded blouse and cardigan, the remains of her plain white bra hanging from her body. The sound of her breathing, harsh and ragged, the feel of the tears running down her cheeks.

She is not brave, or strong, or any of the things she thought she was when Sherlock told her she counted, that he'd always trusted her. When he asked for her help in faking his suicide in order to save his life, and that of three others.

She is frightened, and ashamed of her fright and growing panic, her inability to keep any of this from happening, to fight off the man who grabbed her in the alley or the one who tied her up or, most of all, _this_ man. The one straddling her body, lightly grinding his pelvis against hers as he gazes down at her with his cold, dead eyes.

Jim Moriarty. The man who is about to rape her, over and over again, before dragging her off to a worse hell, leaving nothing but human wreckage in his wake.

She screams, but no one hears her, no one but the man now grinning down at her, restraining her thrashing, panicking form so easily; he is much stronger than he looks, and she is weak, so weak. Sherlock would be ashamed of her if he saw her now.

He must read something of her thoughts in her eyes, her terrified grimace, her short, panting breaths, because the grin widens, deepens into something even darker.

_Molly, Molly, Molly, what would he think of you if he saw you now, if he knew how easy it was for me to take you? _His voice is a lilting croon, the Irish accent stronger than ever, musical, almost, as he speaks. _How easy it's going to be do all the lovely things I plan to do to you before I let him find you again?_

Panic recedes, just the tiniest sliver, at that unexpected revelation. It comes roaring back when she realizes he might not mean for Sherlock to find her _alive_.

Again, he reads her, and again he grins.

_Not to worry, love. You'll be found alive and well. _He chuckles. _Hmm, alive, anyway._

He leans forward again, brushes his lips against hers, laughing softly when she twists her head away in disgust, panic now fully in control of her mind. She attempts to buck him off her hips but serves only to demonstrate not only how helpless she is to do so – but how aroused his is by her actions.

She feels the heat of his cock through the thin layers of fabric separating the two of them – his trousers and pants and her denim skirt and knickers, nowhere near enough clothing to act as any kind of barrier to what is about to happen.

He sits back, laughing at her futile attempts to free herself, reaching slowly, deliberately to unbuckle his belt, to undo the button and zip to his trousers, his eyes never leaving hers.

She is still crying, but only muffled whimpers escape the prison of her tightly-pressed lips as he lays down the knife. As he raises himself up just enough to ease his trousers and pants down to his hips, the tops of his thighs, exposing his erect cock to her view. He touches himself, his tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, and then he is on her like the maddened animal she now knows him to be.

One hand is fisted in her hair, twisting it cruelly, painfully, hard enough to wring a cry from her lips in spite of her intentions otherwise. His knees are between her legs, forcing them apart, while his free hand pushes her skirt up around her waist and shoves aside the thin cotton of her bright yellow knickers.

He doesn't bother to remove them, just as he doesn't bother to remove his own clothing more than he's already done, just jams his cock into her, ramming against her, grunting as he finally slides fully into her.

She can't help the screams that tear from her throat as he moves within her, thrusting into her with no mercy, keeping a tight hold on her hair with one hand, the other digging into her shoulder hard enough to add to the collection of bruises she knows are covering her body.

When it is finished, when he shudders to completion above her shaking form, he leans up on his elbows and regards her out of merciless eyes, a small smile curling his lips. Then he presses a gentle kiss on her mouth and the rush of nausea nearly overcomes her but she will control this much, dammit, even if it is the only thing about this entire twisted encounter she _can_ control.

She watches warily as he jumps to his feet, fastening his trousers, not bothering to wipe himself off. He reaches for his suit jacket, neatly hanging from the back of the metal chair, pulls something out of an inside breast pocket, caresses the black leather case before opening it and showing Molly the contents.

A syringe, and a bottle containing a clear liquid she now knows is heroin.

He cuts her wrists free and she cries out at the pain, the tingling and cramping and burn, but he ignores her, straddling her body once again, plunging the syringe into the bottle, then grabbing her left arm and putting a bit of rubber tubing around her bicep. She cries out again at the additional pain, then gasps as the needle bites into her flesh and he depresses the plunger and suddenly euphoria explodes through her body and floods her mind and she no longer feels the pain and the fear and the panic, only the pure liquid joy Jim had just injected her with.

Then the questions questions questions start and she doesn't answer them all, not this time, not with this first injection, but eventually she does.

Eventually she tells him everything he wants to know, either when the joy hits her system and her tongue loosens from relief, or sometimes during the in-between painful times, when she answers because she knows if she doesn't he won't give her what her body now craves.

Time passes, she has no clear way of judging how much, and sometimes there is another man touching her, forcing himself into her flesh but only when she is high. Jim calls him Seb and encourages him to do whatever he wants to Molly...but only when Jim is there to watch. Seb guards her whenever Jim leaves but is not allowed to force himself on her during those times.

During one of her lucid periods when the drugs have left her system but the craving for more has not yet become so unbearable all she can do is plead for relief, she asks how long she's been here, wherever "here" is. It is no longer the parking garage where Jim first raped her, but she has no idea if it is the same building over that parking garage or somewhere else. She knows it is still London because she can hear Big Ben from wherever they are but that is all. The windows are boarded up, the door to the filthy flat is locked and there is a light on all day and night, never fully dark and never fully bright. Another way to keep her disoriented.

When she asks Seb how long it's been, he stares at her through those flat green eyes of his for a long time before answering. "Month," he grunts at her, then grins as he hears the locks of the door opening; Jim is back and now he can have his play-time with her and Molly forgets all about wondering about the time.

When she does remember, it is sometime later – hours or days, she can't remember – and she is sitting on the toilet in the flat's single bathroom. The toilet and sink are the only things that work in that cramped, disgusting room. Since there is no working shower she is forced to try and wash herself in the kitchen with the dish soap since they have provided her with nothing in the way of toiletries.

When she finishes taking her pee, something in her mind clicks, a brief moment of clarity hits her...

She has not had her period since before she was taken. If she has truly been here a month as Seb told her (_was it only days ago, hours ago, a week?_) she should have had her period already.

In fact, she should have had her period the week _before_ she was taken, shouldn't she?

She is still sitting on the toilet, trying to make her tired, frightened, drug-addled mind _think_, when the pounding begins. It is Seb, demanding that she come out, she's taking too long. So she hurriedly finishes and opens the door and he is right there and his fist connects with her face as he growls at her to fucking _answer_ when he calls her.

It is the first time he hits her, but not the last. Jim does not care if Seb hits her, she is informed. Only that he be there to watch when the other man fucks her. She is told this again and again until sometimes she thinks it is the only thing anyone has _ever_ said to her.

After he hits her he grabs her by the arm and drags her into the main room, practically throwing her onto the ratty gray-green sofa, where she huddles into herself and tries to avoid his watchful, leering gaze. She is wearing the camisole and skirt they have provided for her, a fresh set every day or so. The skirt has tiny pink flowers and the cami is pink as well, with matching knickers underneath but no bra, no stockings, no shoes or socks.

She is glad there is no mirror; she doesn't want to see what she looks like as Seb glances at his mobile, then beckons her over with a nasty grin. "Time for your nice medicine," he says as he continues to leer at her, brandishing the black leather case that she has come to both dread and crave.

When the drugs are in her system she no longer cares that she is in a disgusting bed-sit with no way to properly clean herself. She no longer cares how Jim and Seb use her body. She no longer frets over her situation or worries about Sherlock or tries to remember when her period should have come or how much time has passed or who might be looking for her.

Nothing changes for what seems like forever, until one night (she only knows it is night because of what happens later) Jim prances into the flat with a particularly gleeful expression on his face. He rubs his hands together in that manic way he has and Molly knows this means nothing good for her but is too wracked by withdrawal pains – Seb has refused to give her a dose for some time now, no matter how much she begged and cried – to care. The two men confer in low voices, then Seb is forcing her into clothing different from anything they've given her to wear before – well, the skirt and shoes are different, anyway. The skirt is short, a tight black leather mini, and they don't bother changing the dirty gray cami she's been wearing for the past few days or her knickers, just shove her feet into the too-large and too-high heels before finally dosing her.

She knows something is wrong; it is too strong, she can feel the euphoria being overridden but can do nothing but stumble obediently along when Jim takes her arm and guides her carefully to the front door. Once there he makes her stop, grabs her hand and smears blood all over it. Where did he get the blood – oh, right, they've kept a bag of it in the fridge for some reason, never bothered explaining it to her but she supposes smearing it on her hand and making her press that hand to the wall and leave a very clear hand print must have something to do with it.

Then Jim is pulling her along, bringing her down in a rackety old elevator and shoving her out into the chilly night air and ordering her to just wait.

She has no idea how long she waits, shivering in the evening chill, just as she has no idea who or what she is waiting for…until suddenly a cab pulls up across the street and a man jumps out and runs toward her but she is too out of it to do more than watch as he approaches.

It is Sherlock, he is saying something to her but she can't hear him, all she can hear is her own heartbeat and a slight buzzing sound and then everything starts to fade.

She is crying again, or perhaps she never stopped even when memories slipped into nightmares as she relived everything that had happened to her.

But now there is a hand on her wrist, curled around it, holding it loosely, and she turns to see who is there, expecting John or her friend Mary (she's in and out whenever she's on shift since Molly still isn't allowed any other visitors). Or maybe it will be John's doctor friend Sarah or the rape counselor Molly is beginning to hate, but it is Sherlock.

"Sherlock," she whimpers, still crying, not bothering to try and stop the tears. But she does try to smile, to let him know how glad she is to see him.

"Nightmares or memories?" he asks her, pitching his voice low. Comforting, even. Imagine that; Sherlock Holmes willing and able to do that for her. It will make the inevitable recoil that much harder to bear, but again, she will take what she can for as long as she can have it.

"Both," she admits, hating how shaky her voice remains. "Still. Better than…actually being there."

He nods, his eyes never leaving hers, just as his hand remains on her wrist, as if he is anchoring her to reality. "They will fade, with time," he says to her, and she knows he is speaking from experience. Because whatever sent him into his own downward spiral into drug use was bad. Maybe not as bad as what she's had to endure, but she's not the type to compare her own bad experiences with someone else's, has never indulged in that sort of ridiculous "my hurts are worse than yours" nonsense and refuses to start now.

All she does is offer him another smile and then, in a moment of bravery or foolishness, attempts to interlace her fingers with his, to give him a squeeze meant to convey her appreciation of his words. However, she is still too weak to manage more than the beginnings of the movement and starts to pull away.

She is stunned when Sherlock somehow discerns her intent and does the interlacing himself. He has shown no signs of devolving back into the cold, reserved man she has known for so long, but deep inside she knows it is only a matter of time before his relief over finding her curdles into revulsion at the things she has allowed to happen to her. She will take her comfort from him for as long as he is willing to offer it.

Which, it appears, is longer than she has dared to hope, as evidenced by his next, unexpected and oh-so-welcome words.

"When you leave here, when they release you," he is saying, sounding hesitant, a bit lost, but his eyes are steady on hers and warm, so very warm. "When that happens...will you come home with us, with John and me?"

And all she can do is nod as he continues to speak, making promises she doesn't need to hear because she already knows that Sherlock will do as he says. He will make Jim and Seb pay for what they've done to her. He doesn't say how they will pay, but she doesn't care. Sherlock will take care of the matter, she will be safe, and he wants her to stay at the flat with him. And John, of course, but with him. _He_ makes the offer, and that is the thought she clings to as she finally drifts into a more peaceful sleep with her fingers still intertwined with his.

**oOo**

Of course the blasted therapist would have to put her two cents' worth into what had been a perfectly straightforward request.

"Molly, I agree it's probably best that you have someone stay with you when you're released," Dr. Forester said when Sherlock's request was relayed to her by a visibly brighter-looking Molly Hooper the next day. "But I want you to think about it before you go to stay at your friends' flat."

Sherlock, who was in the room at Molly's request, gave the woman a flat, unfriendly look, while John (also there at Molly's request since it involved him as well), simply looked thoughtful.

"You think, you think it's a, a bad idea?" Molly stuttered out, feeling stupid for falling so quickly into panic. Just when she thought she had regained some control over her life, Dr. Forester was telling her...what, exactly?

"Not a bad idea, no, Molly," the other woman rushed to assure her with a too-bright smile. "Just...perhaps not the best idea right now. I think it would be better for you all round if you were to try and ease your way back into your normal routine and not put it off. You have to go back to your own flat eventually, right?"

Molly nodded, but not before shooting a fearful glance in Sherlock's direction. Dr. Forester – Evelyn, although Molly couldn't bring herself to call the other woman by her first name – had agreed to allow the two men to sit in as long as they didn't interrupt or speak unless asked to do so. Did she even understand what a heroic effort such a restriction was costing Sherlock, who looked about to burst with indignation?

And of course the other woman – sleekly blonde with a figure John Watson couldn't seem to stop ogling whenever her attention was on Molly, wearing clearly designer clothing and a pair of elegant cream heels on her feet that probably cost more than Molly's entire collection of sensible flats and trainers – caught that look and frowned. Not that even frowning could mar her classic Grace Kelly looks, Molly caught herself thinking resentfully, then scolded herself silently. Just because she, herself, looked pretty at best, on a good day – and just because her good days were far behind her at this point, with no return in sight – was no reason to resent the other woman for what nature had gifted her.

"Molly," Dr. Forester said gently, leaning forward in that "I want you to understand how earnest I'm being right now" way she had (another thing Molly was beginning to hate about the other woman), "don't you think, perhaps, that you've been, well, depending a bit too much on your friends for your recovery?"

That last one was apparently too much for Sherlock; he jumped to his feet with a fierce scowl and crossed the small conference room in three quick steps to loom over Dr. Forester. "I would very much like to see your credentials, madam," he said in an icy voice.

Not what Molly was expecting him to say, nor what Dr. Forester was expecting, judging by the confused look on her face. "Pardon?" she asked.

"I asked to see your credentials," Sherlock repeated, voice and eyes still icy with disdain. "Clearly you received your education from some inferior institution, possibly via the internet, if you feel that Dr. Hooper is depending on her friends 'too much' at this very early stage of her recovery. Either that, or you are even more incompetent than I thought."

Dr. Forester's mouth opened and she gaped up at Sherlock in shock. Molly knew she shouldn't be secretly pleased at seeing Dr. Poised-and-Perfect at a loss, but she was.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's eyes raked over the woman mercilessly as she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, clearly unable to form an immediate response to this unexpected attack on her skills. "You spend over an hour preparing yourself in the morning – hair, nails, make-up, all to impress whom, exactly? Your patients? Hardly," he scoffed without pausing to allow her to insert so much as a single word as her expression hardened into a frown. "Surely if you were at all interested in how your appearance might affect them – especially another woman slightly younger than yourself who has undergone a horrific mental and physical ordeal such as Dr. Hooper has recently endured – you would spend less time worrying about matching your nail varnish and lipstick and more time considering how intimidating it might be for a victim of assault to be faced with a woman whose personal looks are of more importance to her than how said victim might be mentally comparing herself – and coming up short, at least in her own mind. However ridiculous such a comparison might be," he added with a sneer.

John had risen at some point as if he wanted to stop Sherlock's rant, but then he'd simply resumed his seat and aimed his thoughtful expression toward his friend. Because he agreed with Sherlock or because he was reading something into his words? Molly wasn't sure which, nor did she care.

All she did care about was how Sherlock had recognized her feelings and made it clear to the therapist – who had first gone red as her indignation mounted, then white as she glanced at her patient in utter mortification – that her personal vanity had, indeed, added to the burden Molly was currently carrying.

Before Dr. Forester could say anything, however, Sherlock had grasped her by the arm and "escorted" her to her feet, and from there to the door, still blasting her for her therapeutic "style" – or rather, lack thereof. "Clearly you are still very inexperienced, and whoever assigned you to Dr. Hooper – who might that have been, by the way? I would very much like to speak them – had no idea how ineffectual you would be. Or didn't care; either way, I believe your time as her therapist has come to an end. We will find someone more competent to replace you, someone who won't be a continual reminder of all the things Dr. Hooper has been missing out on for two months. Someone," he added as he opened the door, "who will put their patients' well-being ahead of their own vanity. Good day, 'Doctor'," he concluded, literally shoving her into the hall and shutting the door firmly behind her.

When she was gone, he turned to find Molly and John both gaping at him in stunned surprise. He sighed and dropped back into his seat. "I suppose you're both about to tell me I overstepped," he said, but not as if he disagreed with that diagnosis.

Molly shook her head and actually discovered that her lips remembered how to form a real, honest smile. "I didn't really like her," she confessed, her voice still wispy and tremulous, but at least she'd gotten her stutter back under control. "Everything you said about her…it was exactly what I was thinking. That she wouldn't go to so much trouble with her clothes and everything if she knew how it made me feel. But," she felt compelled to add with her usual sense of honesty and fair play, "I never told her how I felt, either."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Sherlock said flatly. "She would have found a way to make it your fault for feeling inadequate."

"Had a bad experience with a therapist in the past, did you?" John asked, his tone mildly inquisitive but his eyes crinkling with humor.

Sherlock glared at him, then deliberately turned to look at Molly. "It's not about me, John," he said. "Haven't you been drilling that into me the whole time, that it isn't about me?" He nodded at Molly, who continued to smile at him as he continued. "It's about Molly, and I would say she's much better off without that self-centered, incompetent excuse for a mental health specialist doing further damage to her. Or any other unfortunate patients she might be dealing with," he added.

His expression went from indignant to determined, and Molly had a feeling Dr. Forester was in for a bad time once Sherlock got through with her.

Good. It would probably make her a better therapist. For someone else.


	5. Gift-Wrapped Grief

**Ten Days Later**

"Hoo-hoo! It's me, Molly dear!"

Mrs. Hudson stuck her head into the flat, eyes zeroing in on Molly, huddled in her usual spot on the end of the sofa. Not watching telly or listening to music or reading a book, poor dear. Just sitting there. Recovering, yes, but far from recovered less than a week after her release from hospital. Still so thin and pale and in so much pain but unwilling to take more than the mildest of painkillers, poor sweet child…

She entered the sitting room and laid the small package that had just been delivered on the low table in front of the sofa. Molly stirred a bit, her eyes focusing on the garishly wrapped box, although Mrs. Hudson didn't see any real curiosity in her expression. It was from one of those online stores specializing in women's clothing; a gift from John or possibly even Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson assumed, and said so aloud, keeping her voice cheerful as she puttered around the sitting room, picking up discarded papers and piling them on Sherlock's desk. "Would you like a cuppa, dear?" she offered. "I was just about to fix one for myself and it's no trouble to make two."

Molly offered her a wan smile as she shook her head. "Not right now, Mrs. Hudson, but thank you," she said in that soft voice she'd had ever since her return. Not that Molly had ever been what you'd call loud, had always been a bit soft-spoken, but this was bordering on a whisper, this new way of speaking and moving she had. Timid.

And after all the horrible things that had happened to her, it was no wonder, poor lamb. Not that Mrs. Hudson had asked for – or been given – any details beyond the facts of Molly's kidnapping and the enforced drug abuse, but Molly herself had volunteered the information that she'd also been sexually assaulted and suffered a miscarriage.

Horrible, all of it, happening to such a lovely girl. As if Sherlock's past inconsiderations and occasional verbal cruelties hadn't been bad enough – oh, she wanted to slap that man silly that one Christmas party! – someone else had to go and do such horrible things to the poor girl. Mrs. Hudson wanted to do a great deal more than slap Moriarty and his henchman (or was it politically correct to say "henchperson" now?) if she ever laid eyes on them.

That matter, however, was up to the police. Well, really it was up to Sherlock because when it came right down to it one thing Molly Hooper and Martha Hudson had in common – would always have in common – was their faith in Sherlock Holmes. He'd been distracted the last time he and that evil man had gone toe to toe, busy planning his own safe extraction from Moriarty's plans and worrying about the safety of the rest of them – too busy to make sure that madman actually _was_ dead. Not his fault, the dear boy, but he would blame himself. She knew that look about him, and had been particularly keen to see how he reacted around Molly once he and John brought her home.

When John had told her that was the plan – and asked permission for Molly's cat to join her as well – Mrs. Hudson had given her full approval. And when John admitted it had been Sherlock's idea...well. Now wasn't the time for matchmaking, of course, but it had been clear as crystal how Molly felt about Sherlock and perhaps some good would come out of all this if the dear boy would realize what a wonderful woman Molly Hooper was, not just a competent pathologist.

Of course, he must have already had some inkling since it was Molly who'd apparently helped him fake his death on that dreadful day, but he always played his cards close to the vest and of course Molly had been taken before he'd ever meant to return. So really, there was no way of knowing how he felt about her beyond the obvious friendship and guilt and anger over her situation.

That first sight of the pathologist had been a shock to Mrs. Hudson; so thin, so pale, with fading bruises and – thank God she had a strong heart! – those awful, awful needle marks on the insides of her elbows. She hadn't said anything, she knew better, but it was very interesting to see Sherlock give her a sharp look as soon as she opened her mouth to greet their new guest. He'd been hovering over Molly as if she were made of glass – and didn't she look it at the time, and not much better now, if only she'd get her appetite back it would go a long way toward helping her fill back out again – while John physically escorted the younger woman up the stairs.

All Mrs. Hudson had said – all she'd planned on saying, sharp looks from Sherlock completely unneeded, thank you very much! – were the usual pleasantries. Welcome, don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, your Toby is settling in nicely, how about a nice cuppa, I've just put the kettle on. Things like that. If Molly wanted to talk, Mrs. Hudson let her know she was available.

She'd confided the facts of her assault and that she'd miscarried on the second day, after Mrs. Hudson caught her having a good cry while Toby curled himself on her lap as if he understood that his mistress needed him. Molly had apologized – apologized! – for breaking down and of course there was no way Mrs. Hudson was leaving her alone after that. She'd given the younger woman a gentle scolding for feeling the need to apologize, reiterated her offer to talk, and the details had just poured out of her even though Molly must have been just sick of telling people what had happened to her.

Even though Molly hadn't named the poor baby's father, Mrs. Hudson hadn't been born yesterday and was well able to put a thing or two together. She might not be Sherlock Holmes, but she certainly knew how Molly felt about that man...and that even though she would no doubt mourn any baby she'd lost, the guilt and pain she was feeling spoke to a woman who'd lost a child she wanted rather than one that had been conceived in rape. Oh, the rape had happened as well, but the baby...those men had caused her to lose her child and for that Mrs. Hudson hoped they died a slow, horrible pair of deaths.

Honestly, what some people were willing to do…sick, it was. Absolutely sick. She wasted no time in reassuring Molly that none of it was her fault and that she would certainly light a candle in her baby's honor next time she went to mass. That had caused Molly to sob even harder, offer up some incoherent thanks and finally allow herself to be held by the older woman (much to Toby's displeasure, which like all cats he could demonstrate with uncanny skill) until she was able to calm down a bit.

Unfortunately, any good that might have come from that bit of catharsis was completely undone by the screaming headlines on the newspaper Molly caught a glimpse of the next morning. Oh, Sherlock had had sharp words for John about that, nearly a row, but she was proud of her boys for remembering that Molly needed peace and quiet more than anything right now. They'd kept their tempers – Sherlock only just – and agreed that no newspapers would enter the flat until Molly was ready to see them. Or until the ridiculous furor of speculation over her kidnapping and subsequent discovery had died down.

Those awful reporters and photographers – sometimes Mrs. Hudson swore they were almost as bad as the kidnappers themselves. Them and their incessant craving for scoops and exclusives and new angles on the case…another group she would dearly love to give a piece of her mind to, except of course they'd love it and print her words out of context and things would get that much worse.

She just wished there was more she could do to help. Molly still wasn't eating much more than a bird – less than Sherlock, and that was saying something – and Mrs. Hudson doubted she was sleeping any better than she had when she first arrived. Nightmares were one of the aftereffects of withdrawal, she'd read that somewhere, and was just glad John and Sherlock were here at night to keep her company.

She said something along those lines, receiving a nod in return, but Molly's eyes had turned back to the window, her gaze gone blank, and Mrs. Hudson knew when it was time to make a tactical retreat. "Well, I'm just downstairs if you need anything, love," she said, resisting the urge to find a blanket and tuck it around the younger woman. She looked so small and lost...

Still, there was only so much a body could do when the person they wanted to help refused more than the bare essentials. She supposed it would take some time before Molly could find it in herself to believe that she really was safe – Sherlock said his brother had men watching the building, as well as the undercover police officers DI Lestrade had stationed on Baker Street – and all any of them could do until then was be patient.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and said something vaguely meant to comfort, then left the flat, shutting the door most of the way behind her, leaving it open just a crack, per Sherlock's request. Well, command, really, but she was willing to forgive him a great deal under the circumstances.

**oOo**

Molly listened with half an ear as Mrs. Hudson rattled on about something or other, too hard to focus, really, but she hoped the older woman understood how grateful she was for her sympathy and kindness.

Everyone had been so kind, so understanding, so patient while she tried to sort herself out; she wished desperately that she could do more to show her gratitude, that she could muster the energy to...knit them all jumpers or something. Simply saying "thank you" never seemed to be enough, no matter how many times Sherlock told her it was completely unnecessary.

He blamed himself; she didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to know that much. Even in the haze of drugs and the pain of withdrawal and everything that went along with the PTSD she was diagnosed by her new – and much, much more effective – therapist as suffering from, she could tell he blamed himself.

In a way he was right; the only reason she'd ever found herself in Jim Moriarty's sights was because he wanted to beat Sherlock. He'd dated her to get at Sherlock; he'd slept with her just because Sherlock never had and he wanted to be one up on the man he considered the closest thing to a rival; and he'd done all the terrible things he'd done to her after that to punish her helping Sherlock fake his death.

So yeah, put that way, it was all Sherlock's fault.

But no matter how low she fell, no matter how depressed or angry or sad she became, she could never bring herself to blame him. Because the truth was, even if she were reliably warned ahead of time that this was how it would all turn out, she'd still have done it. All of it.

She shifted restlessly on the sofa, tired of just sitting there but not having the energy to get up and do...well, anything. Her eyes roamed around the sitting room and what she could see of the kitchen, settling finally on the package Mrs. Hudson had left on the coffee table.

She thought about it for a minute before leaning forward and pulling the small rectangle onto her lap. Judging by the name of the retailer and the smallish size of the box, it was probably stockings or a scarf, maybe a piece of jewelry. Sherlock would be proud of her for attempting to deduce the contents before opening the package, even if she turned out to be wrong. In fact, it wouldn't surprise her if he'd deliberately sent this to her for just that purpose. To give her mind something to puzzle over.

Or perhaps it was from John, or her friend Mary or Mike Stamford. It wouldn't be family; once her father died she had no family left to speak of, just a few distant cousins she hadn't seen since she was a teenager. No matter who it was from there would most likely be a card, and she could read it and try to feel happy – or at least grateful – that others were thinking of her.

Nothing for it, then. She hauled herself to her feet and wandered into the kitchen in search of a pair of scissors. She wasn't considered a suicide risk, not by her friends or doctors or therapist or even in her own mind. Although she'd had doubts at first, Sherlock had put them to rest by giving her his best "don't be stupid" stare and shaking his head with a great deal of certainty when she'd pondered the question after first arriving here. _("Shouldn't you put the knives and scissors away so I don't hurt myself?" she'd asked, and The Look had come and the headshake and the idea of taking her own life hadn't so much as crossed her mind once since that day._)

The scissors were carelessly dumped in a drawer along with some medical tools stamped "Property of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital," an egg beater and assorted bent and twisted kitchen utensils and random pieces of wire. She brought the black-handled scissors back to the sofa, curled her legs up beneath her and set to work on the well-wrapped package.

Two minutes later she was slumped back on the sofa, staring down at a terrifyingly familiar black leather case. She unzipped it with shaking hands and found that it contained exactly what she'd both dreaded and half-hoped to see.

A syringe and a single vial of clear liquid.

And, of course, a note.

**oOo**

Sherlock hesitated at the door to his flat, steeling himself for whatever mood of Molly's that might greet him. By far the most common was apathy, but sometimes she was angry and jittery as her body continued to crave the heroin it had been denied since her release from captivity, and sometimes she was crying, which was the most difficult for him to witness. He'd never been good around crying women – crying anyone, point of fact – and the knowledge that Molly's tears and moods and continued ill health were all his fault made his own moods more difficult to keep under control.

However, control them he did, not just because John would pound him into a bloody pulp if he made things more difficult for Molly, but because he truly believed it was the least he could do to mitigate his own role in bringing her to such a state. The very, very least. He knew there was more he could do. More than just continuing to track down Moriarty and Moran – Molly's information regarding the parking garage and the building where she'd been grabbed the night she disappeared had been helpful starting points, his brother had people unraveling the complicated trail of said buildings' ownership even now – so much more he could and should be doing, but he was floundering in such an emotional situation.

He'd had some vague thought that his own experiences in getting clean might be useful, but that was turning out to be true only to a small extent. Yes, he'd gone through withdrawal and could reliably inform Molly as to what she might expect to have to contend with, but that was it. He'd certainly never undergone anything like what Moriarty and Moran had put her through, although there were certain aspects of his own experiences – being forced to either kill himself or allow those he cared for to die, for example – that served as tentative clues as to how he should be dealing with her.

In spite of the emotional landmines still facing him where Molly was concerned, he was reluctant to lean on John's experience, or ask for his advice. Not that that stopped his flat mate from giving it, but still.

Did John really think that Sherlock needed to be reminded that Molly was fragile? Or to urge him to talk to her about the child they'd lost? "She already knows I don't blame her," he'd snapped the one time John brought it up, only to have his friend snap right back at him: "Yeah, but she doesn't know if you care that the baby died, does she?"

That had shut him up. Completely. He'd turned and walked away from John (they were in the flat alone while Molly's friend Mary – what was that woman's last name? – had picked her up to bring her to a therapy session with the much more competent replacement for Dr. Forester that Mycroft of all people had recommended) and refused to listen when the other man tried to apologize.

For what? John had merely spoken the truth; Molly had no idea how Sherlock felt about the death of their child. Nor, point of fact, did Sherlock himself. Which was why he refused to weigh Molly down with his own uncertainty. He didn't have a clue how to help her deal with her own feelings when he was still trying to deduce his own.

Besides, wasn't he helping Molly more by concentrating on finding and ultimately dealing with Moriarty and Moran? If she wanted to talk about it with him, wouldn't she tell him so?

John would no doubt tell him – should he ask, which he wouldn't – that he was lying to himself if he thought that avoiding the subject of the child they'd lost was helping Molly in any way. And of course he'd be right, but Sherlock was so completely out of his depth here that he knew – absolutely _knew_ – he'd only make matters worse if he tried to console Molly for that loss.

Better she should continue to meet with the new therapist until she was able to handle the multiple traumas that had been heaped on her. Better she should lean on her friend Mary and John and Mrs. Hudson for the emotional support she needed to help her through and past all this.

Right. So why, then, had he asked her to stay with him, if he couldn't be there for her the way she deserved?

_Because,_ he answered himself with a frustrated snarl. _Because..._

Because it was safer for her to stay at the Baker Street flat while her abductors were still running around free.

No. Untrue. Stop trying to justify your actions and take responsibility for them, Sherlock.

You asked her to stay because you wanted her nearby. Because sooner or later, no matter how much procrastinating you do, no matter how much you want to avoid sentiment and its messy effects, you care about Molly and dammit, yes, John was right. You're hurting as much as Molly is over the death of your child.

He'd never even considered the idea of fatherhood, not even in passing. Ever. After all, what kind of parent would a high-functioning sociopath make? Wasn't it better that their child hadn't lived long enough to discover what a horrid excuse for a human being its father was?

No. He couldn't allow himself to think that way. Not unless he really did want Molly to turn her back on him, to hate him and blame him and remove herself from his life. He didn't need John murmuring "a bit not good, Sherlock" in his ear to know how not-good that would be.

And it wasn't how he actually felt. It was how he _ought_ to feel, it was how he might have felt if this had happened two years ago, but it wasn't how he felt now.

Perhaps...that was something he should share with Molly?

Molly, who was just on the other side of the door, who'd undoubtedly heard him coming up the stairs and was no doubt wondering what was taking him so long.

He still couldn't believe how easily she'd acquiesced to his request that she stay with them – a request he'd made without consulting John, although once it had been presented as a fait acompli, John had certainly made no protests, even seemed to approve if Sherlock read his mood correctly.

That had been nearly a week ago. She'd been returned to them broken and bruised but alive, and for once in his life Sherlock Holmes found himself empathizing completely with another human being, not faking it or approximating it or analyzing it. Just _feeling_ it.

Sherlock had given up his bedroom for her. Of course she'd protested and of course she'd been overridden, especially once John vouched for the fact that, as often as not, Sherlock actually fell asleep on the sofa, on the nights when he slept at all. Molly should have known that; he'd stayed in her flat often enough over the eighteen months of his "death" for her to remember how seldom he actually slept. And the only time he'd slept anywhere except her sofa during those brief stays was the last time. When they'd slept together in her bed after making love.

Three times. A personal best, although nothing to brag about considering the only other times he'd engaged in sexual activities had been during his drug using days, when his stamina had been considerably…well, non-existent. Which was one of the many reasons he'd deleted the details of those occasions.

At least those drug-hazed encounters hadn't resulted in the transmittal of any sexual diseases. Small favors.

He mentally shook himself, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable by continuing to hesitate in front of the door to his own flat. Whatever Molly's mood, he counseled himself, he would be prepared. Whether it be apathy, anger, restlessness, more crying, he would handle it.

Bracing himself as if for an attack, he turned the handle, opened, the door…and encountered an empty sitting room. Surprising; Molly hardly ever left it during the day, unless she'd made a visit to the loo or was napping in his bed? He hesitated before calling out, torn between not wanting to bother her or wake her up, and not wanting to frighten her if he didn't let her know he was there.

He compromised by calling out, "I'm back, I'll be in the kitchen!" before hanging up his coat and moving purposefully toward the indicated room.

No answer. Not unexpected, but not exactly encouraging, either. There was the off-chance that she'd left the flat, but she'd shown no inclination to do so except for therapy sessions and her follow-up visit to see her doctor. Besides, if she'd left then so would her official – and unofficial – bodyguards, whose presence he'd noted when he pulled up in the cab. Furthermore, Mrs. Hudson would certainly have let him know if Molly had shown any such encouraging signs as a desire to leave the flat.

He waited a few minutes to see if she would emerge from the bathroom, then made his way down the hall that led to his bedroom, anxious to check on her for some reason he (again) refused to give a name to…although part of his mind had already identified it.

His brother would undoubtedly label it "sentiment." He chose to call it "concern."

He tapped on the door and pushed it open, stopping abruptly as he saw Molly sitting quietly on the edge of his bed. She didn't look up even though she must have heard the door open, just continued to stare fixedly down at whatever it was she held in her hands.

He hesitated a moment longer, not sure if he should turn and leave her to whatever thoughts she was currently lost in, or if he should ask her if something was wrong. Her expression was curiously difficult to read.

Molly looked up while he waffled in uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Hello," she said quietly.

"Hello," he replied, feeling awkward and stupid; why had he thought he could help her through this? What had possessed him to keep her here instead of bundling her off to rehab and the professionals who could help her cope with the aftereffects of her temporary – and entirely involuntary – addiction? She looked so sad, so lost, that he wondered if she could ever find her way out of the darkness. Yes, he'd managed it, people did it every day, but he doubted any of them had gone through quite what Molly had suffered. Another way he'd failed her.

Her gaze dropped back to her hands, and he finally moved outside of his preoccupation and guilt enough to realize she was shaking, a slight tremor passing over her body. "Molly?" he asked, careful to keep his voice low and soothing and not commanding. Whenever he got impatient or shouted or even raised his voice the slightest bit she completely fell apart.

She flinched at the sound of her name, and he felt that nameless ache creeping up on him again. Helplessness was not something he was used to feeling.

"This came in the mail. Mrs. Hudson brought it up," she said after a moment, her voice dull and listless in spite of the tremors that continued to shake her body. She held up the black leather case, showing it to him, and he felt his blood freeze as he recognized it for what it was.

A syringe case. Exactly like the one she'd described as belonging to Moriarty.

Wordlessly he stepped into the room and reached out for it, dropping into a crouch in order to keep her from feeling as if he were looming over her. Body language was just as important as the spoken word, if she was ever to recover and find peace with herself. John and the new therapist had drilled that into him.

She handed it over, watching as he narrowed his focus to the black leather case.

It was open.

It contained the expected syringe.

And a small glass vial containing some clear liquid.

He could easily deduce the nature of that liquid, and he raised his eyes to meet Molly's.

"I wanted to use it," she said, her voice shaking, but no tears were falling. She clutched her hands together, fingers twisting as she spoke. "God, Sherlock, you know how it is, right? I wanted it so badly, I thought, why not? It'll help, just for a little while, but it'll help and I'll feel better, won't be so afraid and uncomfortable and sad. Then I thought about how disappointed you – everyone – would be, and I just...didn't." She took a deep, ragged breath. "I didn't," she repeated simply, and Sherlock understood what a momentous confession that was.

"Good," was all he said in reply, reaching up with his free hand to squeeze her fingers in as comforting a gesture as he could manage.

"He sent a note," Molly said after he'd studied the simple black leather case for a few minutes, breaking his concentration. He almost snapped at her for not telling him that in the first place, but managed to hold his tongue, simply holding out his hand and waiting for her to place the crumpled piece of paper on his palm.

She shouldn't have touched any of it, of course; she should have left it all in the box and called him immediately. Let him dust for fingerprints and deduce what he could from the outside in, as it were, before contacting the police and turning it over to Lestrade – or his brother Mycroft – for more in-depth analysis than he could manage here in the flat.

That being said, he was confident that the only fingerprints not his or Molly's on the shipping package would be those of whoever delivered it and Mrs. Hudson. That the leather case itself would hold no clues other than the fact that Molly could identify it as being similar to the one Moriarty had used.

Still. Although their adversary would have been careful to wipe the case clean of all traces of himself, he might have missed the inorganic in his need to ensure that all organic residue had been erased. To that end, Sherlock rose to his feet, preparing to take the case with him into the kitchen for a more detailed analysis in a brighter light.

The sound from behind him was slight, obviously not meant to be overheard, but it stopped him in his tracks nonetheless. He turned abruptly, moving so quickly that Molly didn't have time to school her reactions.

She was trying not to cry. Trying to still the continued shaking of her body.

Trying to hide the disappointment in her eyes as he left her behind in favor of the mystery – and cruel taunt – which had been delivered to their doorstep.

Yes, discovering any clues Moriarty might have inadvertently – or deliberately, never underestimate the man – left them was vitally important. This was the first true lead they'd been given.

But Sherlock's perceptions had been more than subtly altered since Molly's kidnapping and subsequent return. His ability to discern her emotional state might still be stunted, but it was nowhere near as non-existent as it had been four months ago.

She needed him to comfort her, to calm her as best he could.

Which, in spite of the strides he'd been making lately, would still be…not much.

He should call Mrs. Hudson up. She, like John, would know what to do without second-guessing herself at every step. Molly liked her, trusted her, and would find the older woman a comforting, motherly presence.

No.

Molly didn't just need comforting.

She needed comforting from _him_.

And in spite of his initial, instinctive need to analyze the leather case and its contents, to pore over the note in the hopes that Moriarty had given something away, he realized with a feeling of amazement that he wanted to be the one to offer her that comfort.

All the doubts and excuses and evasions he'd so recently gone over in his head fell by the wayside as he reached out and laid the case and note on the dresser. As he sat next to Molly and for only the second time since this tragedy had been set in motion, took her into his arms and did his level best to soothe her battered soul.

* * *

_A/N: I have one completed chapter after this one and one partial chapter so the updates will come a little slower for a while. But they will come! Thanks for reading, reviewing and understanding that I own nothing and make no profit from this except via the aforementioned reviews. :)_


	6. Comfort Zone

_A/N: Thanks as always to wickedwanton for betaing this chapter for me. Thanks to everyone for reading and for leaving such lovely, encouraging reviews. This chapter is a bit of respite from all the angst and horror, at least I hope it is. Next chapter is in progress, almost finished, and I revise my estimate to at least two more after that one, possibly three. _

* * *

As Sherlock held Molly, rocking her gently in a motion he vaguely recalled his mother using when he was sick or upset and much, much younger, he found that, although he couldn't stop his mind from racing, he was able at least to concentrate on the matter at hand. He marveled at the realization that giving comfort to someone else – someone you cared for – wasn't as much of a trial as his panicked mind seemed to think it should be.

He should find her tears distasteful, her desperate hold on him uncomfortable and needy, but instead, all he felt was gratitude that she was allowing him to give what limited comfort he could offer her.

She really should blame him for all this. That she didn't was a constant source of amazement to him – and concern. He couldn't stop fretting over how completely she took the blame onto her own shoulders for not being able to fight her two captors off, for losing their child because of that self-perceived – and entirely inaccurate – weakness. Yes, perhaps it would have been better for her – for _both_ of them – if she'd been more responsible when it came to taking her pills, but he'd been just as culpable as she had that night.

Sherlock had known about Molly's lax habits well before the night before he left for Europe, but at that moment, the moment he'd realized he wanted to make love to her – not simply engage in sex or work off physical stress and frustrations, but truly make love to her – he hadn't cared.

They'd both acted like inexperienced teenagers when they knew better – yet Molly still only blamed herself.

Her sobs had eased somewhat while he lost himself in musing on the recent past they'd shared. A single night, but with such far-reaching consequences.

Not that consequences were on either of their minds at the time, of course...

"_Just...just promise me you'll be careful, all right?"_

_He sighed. "Molly..."_

_She reacted with a nervous laugh, thinly disguising the tears that had been threatening to overwhelm her ever since he'd explained – in the broadest possible outlines – his next move in the chess game his life had become since jumping off the roof at Bart's. "I know. I shouldn't worry...except I can't stop, Sherlock. You're so close to finishing this all now, and if I – if we – lost you for real, it would be so much harder to bear."_

_He'd turned to his knapsack, reaching down to put his latest set of identification – false passport, French driver's ID, various club memberships, all under the pseudonym "Nils Sigerson" – into it when Molly fell silent with a gasp. As she realized how much she'd given away in that tangle of words. _

_Her next words came in a rush, in the obvious hope that he hadn't noticed her accidental foray into the hated realm of "sentiment."_

"_I mean...of course everyone already thinks you're dead, but if they did find out you'd been alive and then ended up dead after all, it would be so much worse, wouldn't it? For them. For all of..."_

_As Molly continued to babble on, to make it ever clearer how deeply her feelings for him ran even as she attempted to cover up those feelings, Sherlock found himself in the curious position of fighting his own feelings – his desire for her to shut up, to stop trying to hide what they both knew to be true. To stop putting him ahead of herself, the way she'd always done and continued to do now, well past the point when anyone else – short of John Watson or possibly Mrs. Hudson – would have given up on him._

_For the first time in his adult, non-drug using life, Sherlock Holmes allowed his emotions to override his logic. Allowed himself to _feel_ rather than to think._

"_Molly," he said, his voice rough, deeper than normal as he struggled to find the right way to convey how much he appreciated everything she'd done for him, everything she continued to do for him – and how sorry he was for making her feel she had to stifle her natural tendencies in front of him._

_Words weren't enough. Even as she fell silent, staring at him through rapidly-blinking brown eyes, waiting for whatever reprimand she clearly expected him to give, he knew words would never be enough._

_He needed to _show_ her._

_He leaned forward and kissed her._

_It was a gentle kiss, his lips soft on hers as he let her see and feel what he wanted to give her, what he wanted to receive from her in return. He remained hesitant out of deference to her own feelings; if she wanted to pull back, to stop this before it went any further, he would accede to her wishes having made his own feelings, he hoped, quite clear._

_She didn't push him away, or pull away from where his lips still rested against hers, his hand resting lightly on her hip. Her own hands, which had been twisting nervously together as she fell silent, landed on his shoulders, clenching tightly into the fabric of his loose t-shirt, fingers digging into his shoulders even as she sighed, opening her mouth beneath his as she encouraged him without words to deepen the kiss._

_It wasn't gentle, that second kiss; this was no time for gentleness, for tender words or expressions of love, even if he knew for sure that was the emotion he felt for her. It was certainly how she felt about him, and knowing that filled an empty space he was just coming to realize was inside of him. Not the empty space where his friendships with John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were gaping, aching to be filled by his return to their lives and theirs to his, but a separate hole that was uniquely Molly-shaped, to be filled by no one else but her._

_She moaned as his lips crushed against hers, as he pulled her tight, so tight against his body, needing to feel her as close as possible, and for her to feel him. Words were inadequate to the moment, time was pressing, and he urged her to understand what he needed from her – what he was offering her in return for the selfless love she felt for him. She would literally do anything for him, he understood that so well now, and he wanted her to know that he would do the same for her. _

_And his emotions and feelings and yes, sentiment, were urging him to do one thing. Not out of obligation or even friendship, but because...because..._

_His intellect balked against giving a name to the emotion sweeping over him. He would decide what, if anything, to call it later. After._

_Molly continued to deepen the kiss, coaxing his tongue to enter her mouth by shyly sliding hers along his, her fingers desperately clutching his hair, pressing into his scalp, one leg lifting as if of its own accord to hook against his thighs and haul their hips and groins closer together. His erection was burning against his own skin, and he reached down to wrench at her trouser button and zip in order to remove at least one of the ridiculous amounts of layers keeping them apart._

_Clever, clever Molly was right there with him, her fingers doing battle with the fastenings to his blue jeans, tugging the grungy t-shirt out of his waistline and pushing it up his chest. She'd dropped her leg to the floor and he begrudged the sudden separation even as he murmured approving noises for her initiative against her mouth. The shirt was over his head and dropped to the floor, her blouse swiftly following, minus a few buttons in their joint impatience to be rid of their clothing._

_Molly's lips were pressed against his chest, his neck, her tongue and teeth licking and nipping as he struggled out of the tight-fitting jeans, cursing them every second they delayed him from his goal. Molly's own trousers were already on the floor, the loose khakis sliding from her hips and down to her ankles before he'd even gotten his to his knees. His next persona was going to wear nothing but baggy trousers, he vowed silently, even as Molly finally took pity on him and knelt to tug his jeans off. Thank God neither of them was wearing shoes; it would have been one too many impediments and would have set him to cursing like Lestrade at the end of a case gone wrong._

_The bedroom was too far away, down a hall and past the much more convenient sofa – oversized, overstuffed, far too large for the flat's small sitting room but the only piece of her father's furniture she'd elected to keep after he passed away four years previous. Sherlock doubted the man would have approved of how it was about to be used, but if Molly was worried about such things she was doing an admirable job of keeping it to herself as she allowed him to maneuver her backwards until her naked body was pressed into its warm blue depths – and Sherlock's body was pressed against hers. Flesh against flesh, the way his body had been craving ever since he'd returned to her flat and was finally allowing himself to understand._

_Molly's fingers were wrapped around his curls once again, tugging his head down for another searing kiss, her tongue no longer shy but demanding, encouraging, not so much sliding against his as wrestling it into submission._

_Hah. Chance would be a fine thing. Sherlock Holmes submitted to no one, not even someone as delightfully soft and warm as Molly Hooper was proving to be. He pulled his mouth away from hers, ignoring her whimper of protest as he pressed his lips to the side of her neck. Protesting whimper became approving murmur as he licked and nipped his way to the juncture of throat and neck, pausing there to suck a red mark into her skin. If he were still a living man and not a ghost in her bed – on her sofa, but the idea was the same – he would mark her throat from ears to collarbone. However, Molly Hooper was not known to be dating anyone and was equally not known for casual flings and so the evidence of his possession of her would have to be in a place well hidden by her usual work clothing._

_His tongue was put to further use as he slid down the smooth length of her body – so tiny, yet so full of alluring mysteries at this moment, as if she were so much larger when naked beneath his bare skin than when fully clothed. Not that he would express such an idea to her; even he knew that a woman never wanted to hear that she appeared larger than she actually was. John would approve this new insight; perhaps he would share it with him when..._

_Not now. Not the right time at all. John had no place in his mind at this moment, not with Molly moaning and writhing beneath his touch, murmuring her appreciation for the way his lips and tongue lingered on her breasts, the way his hands brushed across her hips and thighs, tugging them just the slightest bit apart as he brought his head down to her sex. _

_He breathed in the scent of her, purely female, raw and sour and as intoxicating as the finest wine. Headier than the first hit of cocaine during his drug-using days. He could become addicted to this, to her, and perhaps he would allow himself to feed that addiction when – if – he returned from this latest, possibly last, leg of his journey back to the world of the living._

_In the meantime, this taste would have to be enough to carry him through. His tongue darted out hesitantly; guided by her hands on his head he found himself in the position that seemed to maximize her pleasure as he slid two fingers deep into her slick wetness, moving slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed as his tongue attacked her clit, aggressive strokes that quickly brought her to the edge and plunging over it._

_While she was still bucking her hips against his face, his hands still grasping her hips hard enough to leave bruises, he felt his own erection throbbing, reminding him that he had needs this night as well. _

_Needs that only Molly could satisfy._

_He pulled his head away as her frantic movements stilled, as her hips and buttocks and lower back dropped back to the sofa cushion, as her moans and shrill keens of pleasure turned to panting, gasping breaths. He reached up almost automatically to feel her pulse; rapid, a bird's beat beneath his thumb. He smiled, first to himself, then to her as he pulled himself up to rest against her sweating, overheated body, his arms wrapping themselves around her, one leg resting between hers, the other half off the sofa._

_She stroked her hands through his hair again, a gesture he intuited as being one she'd longed to make for many years now, possibly since first making his acquaintance. It was soothing and arousing at the same time and this tiny pause between pleasing her and pounding himself into her the way his body insisted it wanted to was. Now. Over. _

_He kissed her again, tongue thrusting as he guided himself between her legs, raising her knee so her foot rested precariously on the edge of the sofa beneath his leg, pressing the head of his cock against her slick entrance. There was a single moment of hesitation, where his mind tried to crowd itself full of concerns and worries and even a hint of panic over crossing a boundary he'd never allowed himself to even approach before, but he shoved it all aside. All of it – concerns for the future and preservation of his vaunted intellect and anything else that tried to clamor for his attention – forcing himself to focus on the moment at hand, the woman beneath him and how very, very keen his body was to join with hers._

_The same sorts of thoughts must have crossed her mind as well; her expression showed a fleeting moment of panic and then determination, as if now that she had him she would risk anything to keep him exactly where he was. He didn't need to deduce anything, in that moment of mutual recognition._

_Because he wanted the exact same thing she did. The hesitation passed, and he plunged deep within her welcoming wetness, pulling moan after moan from her throat as he found himself tugging on her hair, sucking at the mark he'd already made on her throat, darkening it, nipping at it with his teeth as their bodies synchronized into a thrust and give pattern that yielded higher and higher levels of pleasure._

_He felt her orgasm, felt the interior muscles clenching and spasming around his shaft and that was enough to bring him over the edge of the precipice with her, spiraling out of control and landing with a crash that left them limp and exhausted and utterly satisfied._

That moment had unerringly lead to this one, the first link in a chain that could only be properly viewed in hindsight.

Had he told her how much he regretted being the one responsible for putting her this position?

Had he ever truly apologized to her?

No. Of course he hadn't; he was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes didn't do _apologies_, didn't do _regrets_. Except, of course, he did. He'd apologized to her for essentially humiliating her at that long-ago Christmas party, kissed her on the cheek and allowed her – along with the gathered guests, John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and whatever boring date John had brought along – to see that he was truly sorry.

"Molly," he said, his voice a low rumble, as soothing as he could manage as he rested his cheek against the top of her head. When had he landed in that position, when had she nestled herself so trustingly into his embrace that he was practically curled around her? And when, he thought with a vague feeling of unease, had comforting her become such a comfort to himself as well?

"It's all right, Sherlock," she interrupted him before he could do more than say her name. She turned her head, craned her neck in order to meet his eyes. "It's not your fault."

He pulled his head back from hers swiftly enough to cause a slight twinge in his neck, his eyes meeting hers and filled with a combination of fury and disbelief. "Not my...Molly, it's _all_ my fault," he half-shouted, grasping her wrists and fighting the urge to shake some sense into her. "All of it."

She shook her head and gazed up at him from the small distance now separating them, tears once again pooling in her eyes. "It's not your fault Jim Moriarty is a psychopath," she shot back, and part of his mind rejoiced at the return of some spark of energy showing itself in her voice and eyes as she argued with him. "It's not your fault I wasn't...that I forgot..."

"Molly, it was as much my fault as yours that we had sex without adequate protection that night," he replied, modulating his voice once again, remembering how fragile her mental state still was. She didn't need him shouting at her, especially when he was only trying to prove to her that she had no reason to blame herself for anything that had happened to her. "I knew of your tendency to forget to take your pills. I knew it, and I ignored it because I..." He stopped, realizing he was giving too much away, but she wouldn't allow it.

She'd stopped crying, was gazing at him through wide eyes, lifting one hand to rest gently on his fist – when had he fisted his hands? Both of them were curled by his sides, fingers digging into palms. "Because you what?" she asked softly. "Please, Sherlock. Tell me. Because you what?"

"Because I...wanted you," he confessed. Why was it so hard to admit to something they both knew? "Because I'd wanted you and needed you for a long time before that night."

**oOo**

He wanted her. He wanted her and he was admitting it to her, saying it out loud, what he'd somehow never managed to do the night they spent together. Molly felt her heart lightening for the first time in a long, long time, the pain inside her heart easing just a touch. She still had so far to go before she could count herself even half-way recovered from the still-raw trauma she'd undergone, from the loss of a child she knew she'd have loved and cherished – already did, point of fact – but Sherlock was helping her even though it was obvious he had no idea he was doing so.

She would have to make it clear to him, but only after she coaxed the truth out of him. The truth she'd finally come to believe, but still needed to hear. Yes, she was being selfish and needy, but for once in her life Molly was allowing her own wants and needs to come first. She reached with her free hand and stroked the side of his cheek, feeling somewhat forward as she did so – Sherlock didn't normally like to be touched, but since he was holding her in his arms, he could hardly object to further closeness, could he?

She held her breath and waited to see what he would do, sighing in relief when he allowed the contact, even encouraged it by turning his head so that her fingers pressed lightly against the corner of his mouth. She wondered if he would take that next step and actually press a kiss to her hand, but didn't hold her breath. They'd shared a night and made a child together, but everything that had happened in between then and now had destroyed any forward momentum, any progress, and there was only one way she was going to unstall them. And that was by asking a question Sherlock might not ever be able to answer.

"Just 'wanted' me, Sherlock?" she asked softly. "Just 'needed' me? Is that all it was? It's...it's all right, if it was," she added, the old habit of second-guessing herself eroding her new-found resolution. "I mean, if that night was just..."

He'd lifted his head from her hand and met her eyes as she stammered and blushed her way through that last bit, but what silenced her wasn't anything he said or any inability of hers to read his expression.

What silenced her was nothing short of a miracle.

The gentle touch of his lips on hers, the feeling of his hand on her cheek, his arm curled around her shoulder as he shifted her in his hold, bringing her closer to him.

Sherlock was kissing her. What was more, she was kissing him back, for once not thinking about the horrible things that had happened to her over the past two months, not worrying about whose fault it was or what she could have done to prevent it – or even, for a few, blessed moments, grieving their lost child.

No, all she was doing was quietly reveling in what Sherlock was trying to show her, to tell her without words.

_You've always counted and I've always trusted you._

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered when the kiss ended, her hand covering his where it rested on her shoulder. "I love you, too."

Then the tears began to fall, and she was helpless to stop them. "I'm sorry," she gasped out, trying to disentangle herself from his embrace. God, couldn't she get through five minutes without falling apart? She'd just told him she loved him, what must he think of her right now?

"Molly, stop, please," Sherlock said, sounding a bit desperate – and why shouldn't he? He was dealing with a crazy woman, a woman who'd brought so much pain on them both and couldn't keep her despised emotions under control...

"Sherlock, please, just...go see what you can find about...that," she said, waving weakly at the black leather case sitting so innocuously on the edge of the dresser. "Research, deduce, just let me...leave me..."

"Never." The word was snapped out, almost harshly, but the look in Sherlock's eyes was desperate bordering on wild rather than any kind of angry, serving to bring Molly's own incipient hysteria back under control. She'd managed to pull herself half off his lap, but his hands on her arms held her in place almost incidentally; the look in his eyes was more than enough to keep her from moving further away. "Molly, you're right, I should leave you. I should let you go, get back to the life you had before I breezed into the morgue at St. Bart's and pretended to flirt with you in order to gain access to the Path lab and body parts I had no right to."

That last bit almost startled a smile out of her; she hadn't thought he'd ever own up to his atrocious behavior over the first few years of their coexistence.

"I should do all that and more," he continued, speaking in a much quieter tone of voice as he continued to hold her gaze with his. "But I can't. Molly, I've always believed sentiment was a trap, a drain on my mental resources, something I could easily do without. But now I have come to understand that I was wrong. Sentiment doesn't have to make you weak; it can give you strength as well." He fell silent, and something in his eyes warned Molly; she braced herself for whatever he was about to say. "Molly, I'm so sorry that we lost our child. It hurts me, just as I know it hurts you. If I could do anything to change the events of the past few months, I would do so – everything except conceiving that child, no matter the eventual outcome."

Molly's heart was beating so quickly she was certain she was about to faint. This was the first time Sherlock had shared his feelings for the baby she'd lost – no, the baby _they'd_ lost, she silently corrected herself.

It helped. God, it helped, knowing that he mourned their child as much as she did. It helped knowing that, even more than his almost-but-not-quite confession of love moments earlier. She threw herself back into his arms and allowed the tears to fall. And if the hair on the top of her head, where his cheek rested, was damp afterwards, she wasn't about to point it out to him or anybody else.


	7. Moving Out

_A/N: Next chapters will be a bit slower in coming. This is the last complete one I have. Sorry. But I hope the content makes up for the upcoming delays._

* * *

Two weeks to the day after her release from hospital, Molly declared herself ready to return to her flat.

Not that she particularly wanted to leave, not after things had turned in such a promising direction both in her relationship with Sherlock and her own emotional stability, but she needed to go home sometime. Her therapist had been gently pressing her on it, reminding her that, although her previous therapist (about whom Molly had spent a great deal of her first session with Dr. Flannigan venting) had been wrong to accuse Molly of leaning too heavily on her friends for support, she was correct in believing that Molly did need to stand on her own at some point. The way she had in the past, and needed to relearn how to do in the future.

Well, as far as Molly was concerned, the future was now. Yes, Moriarty and Moran were still out there somewhere; yes, she was still going to have private security provided by Mycroft Holmes since DI Lestrade had been forced by his superiors to withdraw police protection from her; nonetheless, it was time.

Besides, she missed her flat. She missed sleeping in her own bed, being able to putter around in her nightclothes if she wanted to – and she missed her neighbor, Mrs. Lynderson. The older woman had come round for a couple of visits, but it wasn't the same as seeing her every evening, fussing with her petunias in their white-painted window boxes, or being invited in for a cuppa after a long day at work.

She missed work as well, but had been convinced to wait another two weeks before returning to St. Bart's. Someone – she suspected Mycroft Holmes although there was absolutely no proof behind her belief and she couldn't bring herself to ask Sherlock about it – had ensured that she still had a position to come back to, which was a relief on so many levels she could hardly sort them out.

She'd put a few pounds back on, her appetite returning at least half-way to normal the day Sherlock kissed her and confessed to feeling the loss of their child. Even Moriarty's hateful "gift" hadn't been able to drop her back into the depths of despair, the way he no doubt wanted it to, not after that wonderful, tender and heartbreaking moment between herself and the consulting detective.

Said gift had, as predicted by said consulting detective, yielded up no further clues save one: a small smudge of machine oil smudged across the bottom of the glass vial holding the heroin she'd been mocked and tempted with. Sherlock's analysis had led him to a small machine shop in the northern part of London, barely within the city limits, which in turn had led him to some place in Wales. He and John had spent three days there, chasing down Moriarty and apparently only missing catching him by minutes.

Those three days had been terrifying for her; not because she feared for her own safety, but because she couldn't stop picturing John or Sherlock being gunned down or tortured by Moriarty or his pet thug, Moran. The nightmares she had while they were gone were just as bad, and she'd finally given up on getting more than a few hours sleep at a time when they finally returned, gloomy and disappointed and – in Sherlock's case – murderously furious at the merry chase on which they'd been led.

Because of course the machine oil – a very precise blend of something or other Molly couldn't remember the name of five seconds after Sherlock told it to her – had been left deliberately. Moriarty was toying with them, daring Sherlock to find him and dancing away at the last minute, no doubt laughing that manic laugh of his the entire time.

She shivered as her thoughts circled back, the way they inevitably did, to how he'd laughed at her as she plead for him not to hurt her that first day. She didn't actually think Moriarty had any interest in her now that he'd reengaged Sherlock in his sick, twisted games, but there was only hollow comfort to be found in the thought. He'd used her again, the way he'd used her the first time to get close enough to Sherlock to taunt him, not caring how pretending to be romantically interested in her had bruised her heart.

Just as he didn't care how callously he'd used her body. Although Sherlock had never said so, Molly was convinced that Moriarty knew she'd been pregnant all along. That he'd hoped to cause her to miscarry, a belief that blinded her with grief and rage at unexpected moments even two weeks after her body had recovered from that particular pain.

She could even get pregnant again, she'd been informed by Dr. Sawyer, who was overseeing her recovery. She'd seemed hesitant to bring it up, until Molly point-blank asked about it.

"You're making a remarkable recovery, Molly, especially now that you're eating properly once again," Sarah had said in the comforting, friendly manner she had. "The drugs are completely out of your system, and you've come through withdrawal about as well as could be expected, under the circumstances."

"Yes, but that's not what I asked," Molly had retorted, feeling particularly brittle and vulnerable the way she always did after a pelvic exam. "I asked if I could get pregnant again. There's no…permanent damage, is there?"

She'd been terrified of the answer, positive that was why Dr. Sawyer was hesitating, and relieved beyond belief when the other woman shook her head and reached out to give Molly's hand a reassuring squeeze. "No, no permanent damage," she said. "I'm sorry, I should have realized you'd be worried about something like that. I just…I know how difficult this has been for you emotionally as well as physically. I worry that you'll rush into something your body may be ready for, but your mind might not."

Molly's response had been a brisk nod and a promise not to do any such thing. She even managed not to cry until she and her friend Mary were in the back of the cab on the return journey to Baker Street.

She could easily see why Sarah had been concerned for her mental equilibrium; now that she knew she could have another baby any time she wanted, it was almost all she thought about. She didn't confide that fact to anyone but her therapist, and then only because he pressed her about it when it became clear she had something on her mind. It was probably for the best that her appointment with him had been the morning after she'd seen Dr. Sawyer, else she might have had time to try and bury her emotions, put off the admission that the idea of having another baby filled her with a sort of blind joy that she knew, deep down, couldn't be healthy.

Not just having any baby, of course, but having Sherlock's baby in particular. A second chance for the two of them to produce a new life, one untainted by Moriarty and Moran.

She wasn't so far gone, however, as to try and seduce Sherlock like some soap vixen; not so obsessed with the idea that she was willing to bring a child into the world while those two were still running around loose.

Besides, she had to constantly remind herself, just because Sherlock grieved their accidental child's death just as much as she did didn't mean he wanted to try and have another one with her. And even if he did, they'd only just reached a sort of understanding that might eventually become an actual relationship – someday, perhaps, in a future that no longer included a direct threat to their lives at the hands of a madman.

Well. Considering Sherlock's line of work, the likelihood that another madman might pop up in his life again was higher than it was for most people, but that was something they would deal with when and if it ever happened. Right now, it was Moriarty Sherlock was determined to hunt down and punish for what he'd done to Molly. To them both.

She felt a bit conflicted about that...not about Sherlock dealing justice or punishment or vengeance or whatever word you wanted to use out to the men who had done so much damage to her, but about how _unconflicted_ she felt at the thought of them getting what they deserved. Shouldn't she feel guilty about wishing pain and death on another living being, let alone on two of them? Shouldn't she be begging Sherlock to let the police handle it?

Shouldn't she _not_ be quietly reveling in the idea of Moriarty and Moran getting exactly what they deserved?

She hadn't broached that particular subject with Dr. Flannigan yet, but knew it would inevitably come up. Especially if Sherlock found the two fugitives before the police. Because it was socially acceptable to be glad when wrongdoers – no, strike that, too tame: _evil_ doers – were brought to justice. No one would condemn her for being pleased if the two men spent the rest of their miserable lives behind bars...but there were many who would feel she was being uncomfortably bloodthirsty if she rejoiced in their slow, painful deaths.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, the people closest to her weren't likely to do anything but share her feelings, from Mary to John to Greg to Mrs. Hudson – and most especially Sherlock.

He'd even allowed himself to be put into his brother Mycroft's debt, promising to investigate any number of government-sanctioned cases as soon as he'd brought down his enemies. Molly would have liked to have been the proverbial fly on the wall for _that_ conversation, which John had recounted to her with a tone somewhere between bemusement and awe.

She'd ventured out of the flat several times in the past several days without anyone accompanying her – well, anyone but the bodyguards Sherlock insisted on having his brother post. Mary had been particularly encouraging the first time Molly rather timidly asked if she'd mind not taking her to her appointments any more. "God, Molls, are you kidding?" she'd said when her friend started to apologize. "Of course I don't mind! I think it's great!"

She also, Molly had been noticing but not saying anything about, seemed to think a certain temporary flat-mate of Molly's was great – John, to be precise. She'd caught the two of them semi-flirting more than once since he and Sherlock had returned from Wales, always rather self-consciously stopping as soon as she stepped into the room. She hoped her return to her own flat would make things easier for the two of them if they were seriously interested in one another.

She'd ask Mary, she decided, after she'd spent at least a couple of nights sleeping in her own bed, in her own flat, with no one for company but Toby. If she could manage that much, she knew she'd be able to keep going from there.

If, on the other hand, she ended up running right back to the relative safety of Baker Street...well, that would be an entirely different kettle of fish.

_No, stop, _she ordered herself testily as she finished folding the last of her clothes up and placed them into her suitcase. The one Sherlock had retrieved from her flat for her just yesterday. _Like your Dad used to say don't go borrowing trouble, Molly Elizabeth Hooper._

She would be just fine. Well, maybe not fine, but she would manage. This was a first step; once she took it, the next one would be easier, the one after that easier still. Yes, she would likely backslide a bit now and then – two steps forward, one steps back as the saying went – but she was determined to take her life back and no one was going to stand in her way.

Not even herself.

**oOo**

Molly was leaving. Today. Now. She'd already packed her meager belongings, placed Toby in his carrier (he was meowing as piteously as if she'd dipped his paws in hot asphalt) and was in the process of donning her coat and making her good-byes.

Sherlock didn't want her to leave.

He didn't tell her that, of course. The therapist said it was time, Molly herself said it was time – so why, then, did he feel so hollow at the thought of her no longer occupying his bedroom?

It wasn't as if she were disappearing from his life, simply moving out of his flat and back into her own. Taking up her life again, the life that had been so cruelly interrupted by his enemies – and by extension, himself. In two weeks' time she would return to St. Barts; he would see her in the morgue and the Path lab and the hospital corridors. If the current leads he was investigating turned out as he hoped they would, by then she would also have the satisfaction of knowing that Moriarty and Moran were safely behind bars.

Or dead. He would gladly accept either solution. Anything would be better than this current state of paralysis in which he found himself.

He was seated on the sofa, hands steepled in front of his face, but he wasn't in his mind palace, he wasn't even lost in thought. No, he was watching every move Molly made as she turned to kiss John on the cheek and hug him, thanking him for letting her stay and for everything he'd done for her.

Everything _he'd_ done. Hah! As if John was the one to find her, to bring her to the hospital, to ask her to stay with them...

He stopped before he allowed his discomfort with Molly's leave-taking to escalate into misplaced anger against his best friend. He didn't need a therapist to tell him about transference, thank you very much. This reaction, at least, he could easily identify, even as he still tried to keep himself from admitting to the reason behind the reaction.

He didn't want Molly to go because he...wanted her to stay.

And not just during her recovery.

It was an alarming discovery to make; he'd always been independent, had never needed anyone before – or at least, so he'd told himself, over and over again until he actually began to believe it. Then John Watson had come into his life and he'd learned how barren and empty that life had been. Even the work, which he'd insisted was all that he needed, gained an extra spark once John started assisting him.

Molly had always been a part of that life; she'd been working at St. Bart's for as long as Sherlock had been assisting Lestrade, although she hadn't always been the pathologist on duty, especially during those early days. When had she become the one he most relied upon for assistance, and not simply because he could flatter or bully her into providing unauthorized body parts for him to use in his experiments?

When, exactly had she begun to count? Yes, he'd always trusted her, as he'd told her that memorable night before his fall from the roof, but when had that trust evolved into something that extended beyond the workplace, beyond her quiet competence as a pathologist?

When had she become a friend?

When, exactly, had he fallen in love with her?

That thought brought him abruptly to his feet, anxious for something – anything – to distract himself with. "When are you going to ask Molly's friend out, John? I'm sure she's just waiting for you to make the first move," he blurted out – just as Mary opened the door to the flat, Mrs. Hudson hard on her heels.

The smiles on both women's faces vanished as everyone – Molly and John included – turned to stare at him. "Perfect timing as always, Sherlock," John finally said, face turning brick red as he reached down to pick up Molly's suitcase. "Sorry about that, Mary, I think you've seen by now that Sherlock has the tact of two-year-old who wants to know why Mummy was kissing the mailman – and asks Daddy."

Mary snorted and rolled her eyes. "No worries. You forget, I saw him in action in the hospital well before all this mess started." She gave Molly a smile and squeezed her arm in welcome. "You two are amazingly patient people to have put up with him for so long without strangling him." She cast a dark look Sherlock's way. "I know I've been tempted at time or two in the past." The smile returned. "But I'd say he's more than made up for it since he returned from the dead." She gave Molly a sideways hug. "Hasn't he, Molls?"

Molly returned the hug, eyes lowered and cheeks flushing red with sudden embarrassment. Why did no one ever remember how little she enjoyed being the center of attention, Sherlock found himself wondering in irritation. "He's right, though," Molly said, surprising them all as she locked her gaze on John's face. "You really do need to just ask her out. Something tells me she'll say yes. Isn't that right, Mary?"

It was the other woman's turn to blush, while Mrs. Hudson chuckled indulgently from her position in the doorway. "Whether the answer is yes or no, dear, I do believe they've the right to do the asking and the answering without us as an audience." She stepped into the hall. "Why don't you go flag down a cab, John, and perhaps Mary can keep you company? I'll call up when it gets here," she added, smiling at Molly before coming over to give the younger woman a motherly hug. "It's been wonderful having you here, my dear, even under such trying circumstances. Do come round once in a while for a visit, will you?"

Molly nodded while Sherlock remained standing in front of the sofa, hands twitching by his sides for lack of something constructive to do. He shoved them into his pockets as Mrs. Hudson shooed John and Mary down the stairs, closing the door behind her, all but a crack. Just enough for them to hear her calling when the taxi arrived, but not so much that she would be able to hear whatever they might have to say to one another.

She'd just masterfully staged a private moment between the two of them, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

**oOo**

Molly stood staring at the mostly closed door to Sherlock and John's flat before slowly turning to face the room's only other occupant at the moment.

What the hell had just happened? One minute she'd been making her good-byes, determined not to draw things out or make anyone uncomfortable, the next Sherlock was blurting out things about John and Mary and suddenly Mary was right there and Mrs. Hudson and Molly found herself doing some blurting of her own and then...

Then she was alone. With Sherlock.

They hadn't been alone like this since the day Moriarty sent the syringe case in the post.

Sherlock seemed as uncomfortable as she was, hands thrust deeply into his trouser pockets, standing awkwardly in front of the sofa, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything but her.

Well. Apparently she was going to have to be the one to approach him this time. Fair was fair; he'd done beautifully since this whole sordid mess began, being there for her in too many ways to count. Time to make this easier on him. "Thank you."

That caught his attention; his head stopped bobbing around, his gaze met hers and his expression went from uncomfortable to confused. "Thank you?" he echoed, squinting at her doubtfully. "Whatever for?"

She crossed the sitting room and stopped directly in front of him. Reaching out, she took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it, a genuine smile on her lips as she said: "For everything."

He shook his head, and when she made to let go of his hand, he caught her fingers and brought them up to his lips for a tender kiss. "No, Molly, don't ever thank me for getting you into this situation. But I do wish you weren't going," he added with a petulant frown. "I know you need to but I'll miss having you nearby."

Her smile broadened at his return to normalcy, all awkwardness erased by that confession. "I'll miss you, too," she admitted. "But Dr. Flannigan is right, I need to start sorting my life out again. And part of that is moving back home."

"This could be your home."

That last bit came out in a rush; Sherlock looked for a moment as startled by his words as Molly felt, but then his chin came up into its most stubborn set and she realized he meant them. "When you've gotten...when you're feeling...Damn!" he exploded, running agitated fingers through his hair and staring at her as if it was her fault he didn't know what to say.

Which, she supposed, feeling more than a bit dazed herself, it was. "Sherlock, are you asking me to move in with you?" she somehow found the strength to ask.

He tucked his chin down and folded his arms across his chest, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous child as he said, his voice low, "Yes."

"Why?"

His head jerked up and his eyes met her troubled gaze. His own narrowed in response to whatever he was reading from her expression and body language. "You think I'm offering out of guilt," he almost – but not quite – accused.

She nodded unhappily. "Sherlock, I know you care for me, that you did even before all this," she waved a hand vaguely in the air, "but right now you're feeling guilty for what happened to me and our...our baby," she finished in a near whisper, her head dropping down as her own guilt and sorrow once again threatened to overwhelm her.

Cool fingertips under her chin, tracing the edge of her cheek, brought her face back up to meet his firm gaze. "I hate what happened to you and our baby, Molly," he agreed. "But I'm not asking you to move in with me out of guilt or even concern for your safety, as I can clearly see you are about to offer up as another possible motive." His lips twitched in annoyance. "Kindly do me the courtesy of allowing me to interpret my own feelings, as I do for you."

She nodded, unable to speak, and he gave a sharp nod of his own in response. "Good. Now. When you leave today, I want you to think about what I've said to you. I asked you to move in with me, and I didn't ask out of guilt or fear or even because I think it's what _you_ want. I asked because it's what_ I _want. Are we clear?"

She nodded again, a smile trembling on her lips. "As crystal," she replied, pleased that her voice held only the slightest hint of a quaver. At least the tears that were gathering behind her eyes were happy ones this time. "And I promise, I'll think about it. And after I've been back at work for a full week, I'll give you my answer."

His answering grin was cheeky as he pulled her into his arms for a warm embrace. She had no fear of being touched by him, being held by him; his arms made her feel safer than anywhere else in the world. "Oh, we already know what your answer will be," he said as she rested her cheek on his chest, her arms warm around his waist even as his settled around her shoulders. "I am, however, willing to wait until you feel you've satisfied your therapist's requirements before returning here to live."

For the first time in nearly four months, Molly Hooper threw back her head and laughed out loud.


	8. Lunch Break

_A/N: Sorry for the lengthy delay, but I had a bit of a struggle with this chapter. I know the end game, but there are various directions it could have gone getting to that point, and this is the one that finally won out. As always, thanks to wickedwanton for betaing skills extraordinaire! Enjoy!_

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**Three Weeks Later**

Sherlock paused just outside the doors to the St. Bart's morgue, peering through one small oval window while resting one hand on the door.

John Watson, who had been half-running to catch up with his friend's long strides, came to a halt behind him. "Sherlock? Why are you spying on Molly through the window?" he asked when he'd caught his breath, his voice laced with humor.

His friend didn't bother turning around as he answered in a low voice: "I'm not spying on her, John. I'm merely...ascertaining how much time she needs to complete the autopsy she's performing. You're always prodding me to think more of others, so kindly do me a favor and accept that I'm doing as you asked for once."

"You mean let you keep mooning after her," John corrected him, deeply enjoying the chance to tease his friend a bit after all the horror of the last several months...no, longer than that; to be able to chuff him again after his eighteen month absence on top of the recent horrors they'd all undergone was positively brilliant.

The only dark blot on the horizon was their inability to lay hands on either Jim Moriarty or his brutish sidekick, Sebastian Moran. Molly had been free from their clutches for six weeks now, and it had been over a month since Moriarty had sent so much as a taunting text.

John knew it was merely the calm before the storm, but he'd be damned if he gave over enjoying it in spite of knowing it was little more than a temporary reprieve. When the criminal mastermind decided to show himself again, to take up the twisted game he seemed to be forever forcing Sherlock to play, he would find John Watson suitably grim and ready for whatever he chose to throw at them.

But that day was not today. No, today was a day for taking the piss and seeing just how much ribbing Sherlock could take.

Which, as it turned out, was not very much. He turned to face John finally, scowling down from his superior height. "I do not 'moon' after anyone, John," he snapped. "Observing Molly at work hardly falls under that ridiculous description."

"It does when you're lingering outside the doors to the morgue and watching her instead of just stalking in all dramatically like you usually do." John continued to grin at his friend, completely unintimidated by either the height difference or the irritated scowl Sherlock now had plastered to his face.

"I don't 'stalk,' either," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms across his chest, his scowl looking distinctly petulant now. "Honestly, John, you make me sound like some amateur theatrics villain…"

"Is something wrong out there?"

While the two men had been arguing, one of the swinging doors had been pushed open, and Molly was peering out at them with a concerned expression on her face. She'd shoved the protective face shield up so that it hovered above her head like some blood-spattered, oblong halo; the apron and gloves she wore also showed signs of the autopsy she'd been conducting, and John was very glad he had a strong stomach and medical training, since the scalpel in her left hand looked very much like it had been used to dig around inside the corpse's brain. She was holding the door open with her shoulder, careful not to get any bodily fluids on it.

"Sherlock was just admiring your work from afar," John replied, easing the obvious concern she was feeling. She must have heard their voices or perhaps seen Sherlock peering in at her. John's good humor faded a bit as he realized she must have been worried that something had happened, but before he could reassure her, Sherlock broke in.

"I was waiting for you to finish up with Mr. Lebowski so we could take you to lunch," he corrected John, who blithely ignored his glare and simply grinned back at him. "Do hurry, Molly, before John finds some other idiotic method of expressing his current good humor."

Molly's gaze swung from Sherlock to John. "Something special about lunch today, John?" she asked, eyes wide and innocent but with a sparkle to them that told John she already knew.

He and Molly's friend Mary – Mary Patrice Morstan – had been dating for exactly two weeks today, and she was going to be joining them. It was meant to be a surprise, but John should have known that Molly would already know about it. Before he could confirm her question, however, Sherlock butted in.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Yes, Nurse Morstan will be joining us for lunch and it's all very lovely and please, Molly, can you finish up the autopsy so we can leave? I know you only have to sew up Mr. Lebowski and return him to his drawer, do get on with it."

There was a distinct whine in Sherlock's voice as he finished speaking, but John knew it wasn't because he was actually impatient to go to lunch – their first lunch as a foursome, as two couples on something of a double-date – but because today Molly had promised to let him know if she would move in with them.

Her response to his increasingly testy tone was not to stammer or blush or make excuses, but to simply roll her eyes before ducking back into the room to complete her work. She offered John a quick wink and a smile, which he returned before she vanished from view.

It was good, the changes in Molly since she'd moved back to her flat and returned to work. There were still days when she could barely force herself to get out of bed, but there were also days like this, where she not only seemed like her old, cheerful self, but seemed to have blossomed from the shy, stammering pathologist into a much more confident butterfly.

He'd never say it to Sherlock's face, but he knew it wasn't just the therapist and being back in her old routine that had helped. It was Sherlock's change in attitude toward her, both before his fake suicide and, more importantly, how he'd acted toward her since finding her on that filthy street corner six weeks ago.

The Sherlock Holmes he'd first met would never have been able to ask Molly Hooper to live with him, for example.

On the other hand, he hadn't changed into a completely different person, John thought wryly. For one thing, Sherlock hadn't consulted him about Molly moving in; if it wasn't for her having talked the decision over with Mary, and Mary passing the intel onto John during one of the many private conversations they'd shared over the past few weeks, he might still be in the dark.

He didn't take it personally, even though having a third person in the flat would impact him as well as Sherlock. At least he'd thought to clear it with Mrs. Hudson first; John had felt her out as soon as Mary had filled him in, to find that their landlady not only knew but heartily approved. "She'll be so much happier here, John, and I think it might be a bit easier on you as well as on Sherlock, having her about," had been Mrs. Hudson's pronouncement. "Toby's a darling and the litter box can be kept downstairs, although honestly, with all Sherlock's experiments one catbox won't really make much of a difference as far as odors go!"

Having a cat living with them wasn't the adjustment John was most concerned with. Nor was concerned with how it might affect him, even knowing that if all went well, eventually he would have to move out. If, of course, Sherlock was asking Molly to move in with him as romantic overture and not just out of some sense of guilt or overprotectiveness toward her, what with Moriarty and Moran still running loose in the world.

He didn't think that was it, not entirely, anyway, but once Molly gave her answer the three of them would have to work out the details – if it wasn't romantic, then where exactly did Sherlock think Molly would be sleeping, for example? Unless he meant to simply surrender his bedroom and use the sofa as he so frequently did...

Uh-oh. He came out of his private thoughts to find Sherlock watching him, and not just in a typical "you've been annoying me and I want you to stop now" way. No, this was his "I'm about to unleash my full deductive forces on you, John Watson" look.

He hated that look. It had been almost two years since he'd last seen Sherlock's eyes zero in on him in that way, but he knew exactly what was about to happen.

He gave himself credit for trying to stave off the inevitable; he could always comfort himself with that knowledge in future. He'd tried. "So, Mary's going to meet us at the restaurant in about twenty minutes, maybe I should just go on ahead and get a table, get things started so Molly won't have to worry about running late..."

"You were speculating about my intentions toward Molly." Sherlock frowned sharply. "Don't. She and I have already had that discussion, so you needn't worry."

John blew out a breath. "OK, great, fantastic," he replied, taking a step backward. "I won't, then. Worry. As long as she knows what she's getting into..."

The door swung open again, this time revealing a very annoyed Molly Hooper. "You two realize that I can hear every word you say, right? And that it's very distracting...and yes, John, Sherlock and I have already discussed his motives for asking me to move in and if I had any doubts I wouldn't be doing it...oh!" Her gloved hand fluttered up, as if to cover her mouth, but stopped short of touching her lips. A good thing, too, since there were a few traces of blood on the blue latex.

Sherlock was grinning madly as he looked first at Molly, then at John. Without saying a word he leaned forward, grasped Molly's shoulders and pulled her to him for a very warm kiss. So warm that John found himself flushing a bit, turning his head as if there were something absolutely fascinating about the green-painted walls.

He heard Molly's muffled laugh before she exclaimed: "Let me go, Sherlock, I do have to wheel Mr. Lebowski back to his shelf! I'll meet you at the restaurant, just give me fifteen minutes or so!"

He turned his head back in time to catch Molly's eye again. "John, get him out of here, he's driving me spare today! It's the fourth time he's been by, did you know that?" With a sweet smile, directed straight at Sherlock's outraged face, she vanished for the second time.

John was grinning as Sherlock, teeth obviously grinding, turned and stalked – yes, that was the right word, John decided after watching with a critical eye – down the hall. John muffled a laugh and hurried after him, pulling out his mobile and sending off a quick text to warn Mary that the consulting detective was likely to be in a bit of a snit after Molly's little revelation.

The liar had claimed not to have been by St. Bart's since yesterday evening, when he'd escorted Molly to her flat.

Lunch, John decided gleefully, was going to be a great deal of fun.

**oOo**

The restaurant was less than a city block away from the front entrance to the hospital, and John and Sherlock arrived less than five minutes after exiting the main doors. Mary, who'd been covering an early-morning-to-noon shift in pediatrics, arrived about ten minutes later, slightly out of breath from hurrying. "Sorry I'm late!" she called out to the two men as soon as she spotted them. She'd taken the time to change out of her scrubs and into a smart navy blue dress that John had never seen before but liked very much.

Mary's figure was only one of the many things John found attractive about her. Aside from that, there as her sunny personality, her fierce loyalty to Molly, her willingness to go toe-to-toe with Sherlock when he was being, in her words, "a total shit," not to mention her winning smile and lovely blue eyes and dark blonde hair, all added up to a package no man could possibly resist.

Certainly not John Watson...who was so busy gaping at her in admiration that he forgot to respond to her greeting until she was standing right in front of him, grinning as she leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "You were staring," she said, still grinning. "Do I have a smut on my nose?"

"No, you look lovely as always," John replied, returning her grin and giving her a kiss of his own – right on her soft coral-painted lips. He heard Sherlock's overly dramatic sigh and knew if he looked his friend would be rolling his eyes. "Hullo, Sherlock," Mary said, turning to offer him a smile. "Where's Molly?"

"She was finishing up an autopsy when we left her so she be along any minute," John replied.

Mary's smile faltered, and a pair of faint lines appeared between her eyes. Sherlock tensed. "What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

Mary glanced at John uncertainly before returning her gaze to meet Sherlock's icy blue-grey eyes. "Well, it's just...I checked in at the morgue before I left, and Molly wasn't there, so I just assumed..." Her voice trailed off uncertainly, and John laid an arm across her shoulders.

Without another word, Sherlock pivoted on his heel and hurried out of the restaurant, leaving the other two to hurry after him.

As soon as John reached Sherlock's side, he placed a hand on his friend's arm. "What about Mycroft's men, aren't they still watching her?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, still not speaking, jaw clenched tightly shut as he lengthened his stride until the two men were almost running back to the hospital. John felt Mary's hand slip into his and squeezed it reassuringly. She wasted no time in wondering what was going on; she knew as well as John exactly what thought had entered Sherlock's head as soon as Mary mentioned her belief that Molly had already left the hospital.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to locate Mycroft's men, exactly where they'd been when he and John left the hospital – down in the basement, near the exit Molly would have used if she'd actually left to go to the restaurant. His return caught their attention even before he demanded to know where Molly was.

Upon being told that Dr. Hooper was still in the morgue, Sherlock pushed past the two men and ran down the hall, shoving open the doors and skidding to stop just inside, John and Mary right behind him.

There was no one there. Just to be certain, John peered into the supply cupboard – there had been an embarrassing incident where Molly had accidentally locked herself inside several years ago – but of course she wasn't there. The cold terror in his veins and stomach and clenching his heart already told him it wasn't going to be a simple case of Molly having lost track of time. Mary, he saw from the corner of his eye, was on her mobile, listening intently...no. She shook her head, eyes wide with worry. No answer from Molly. And no sound of a mobile ringing, either, so if Molly was here, she didn't have her phone with her.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was tearing around the morgue; peering into a drawer (occupied) and lifting the sheet covering the head and face (male, not Molly, not that John expected it to be Molly, God, no); checking out the autopsy table nearest the door (the one Molly had been using)...and coming to a complete stop as soon as he reached it, standing like the proverbial statue and staring down at it's sheet-covered surface.

Wait, that was wrong; autopsy tables weren't usually covered up like that...no, the other two were bare metal. John's heart sped up and he watched with a feeling of near-terror as Sherlock carefully reached out and lifted the sheet.

The table was empty, pristine, not so much as a single drop of blood to show that Mr. Lebowski had recently occupied it.

In fact, there was only one thing that had been left – no, John realized dully as he heard Mary's inrush of breath as she took her hand in his, holding it tightly – not left.

Placed there.

A syringe, with a few drops of clear liquid on the tip. Next to it, a small vial, lying on its side.

Empty.


	9. Cat and Mouse

_A/N: I know, it's been a long time coming, but here is the newest chapter. Many thanks to Nocturnias for strategizing and general plot-tweaking for this chapter. Unbetad this time around cause I didn't want to make anyone wait any longer than they already have, so if you see something wrong, sing out and I'll fix it. :) Thanks as always for following and favoriting and reviewing! Oh, and I think there will be about 2 more chapters after this one, for those who were wondering._

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"Laundry cart. Regular maintenance men, already checked out by Mycroft as well as Lestrade, most likely being blackmailed against their families' lives. Temporarily relocated in order to further muddy the trail. Lestrade's men will find them several days from now, no sooner."

Sherlock's pronouncements were made in a rapid-fire monotone, one John recognized all too well as his friend at his most furious – and most controlled. He'd heard the term "icy" applied to Sherlock's gaze but had never felt it as cold and deadly as it was at this moment.

Lestrade and his SOCO team had been summoned and were hard at work. John had done his best to fill in the Detective Inspector while Sherlock prowled around the edges of the room, looking for what John had no idea. He'd already declared the place empty of clues, the hallway not worth looking over and Moriarty and Moran – if they'd even been here and not just left it to their two dupes to do the dirty work for them – long gone.

The empty syringe and bottled had been taken for analysis immediately, although John had the bleak feeling he knew what they would be shown to have held. Bastards had already done so much damage to Molly; why couldn't they leave her be, now that they'd flushed Sherlock out of hiding?

Mary's gentle touch on the back of his hand caught his attention; he looked down to see that he'd clenched both hands into fists. He let out his breath and offered her as much of a smile as he could manage. "Sorry," he said, keeping his voice low, mindful of the need not to disturb Sherlock's thought processes. "I just really want – "

"To hit something?" Mary finished for him with a wry smile. She laced her fingers through his. "Yeah. Me, too."

She'd given her statement to Lestrade, as had John and Sherlock – well, as much of a statement as Sherlock could be coerced into giving when he clearly found it a waste of his time to do so. Now there was nothing more for her to do except be there for moral support – and selfishly, John was willing to allow her to do so instead of insisting she go home. Not that she would, since Molly was her friend, too, but if there were any leads he knew Sherlock wouldn't allow her to accompany them.

The sound of a mobile ringing caught John's attention – Lestrade's. Not Moriarty, then. He felt his shoulders slump in disappointment, but waited to see what Lestrade would have to say when it ended. It might still be pertaining to Molly, after all.

Lestrade's end of the conversation came in a series of terse one or two word bursts: "Lestrade." "Where?" "You sure?" "Right." A glance at Sherlock. "Be there shortly."

He shoved the mobile back into his jacket pocket, offering Sherlock a piercing look as he did so. "That was Donovan. They've spotted Moran on the east end."

"It's a false lead."

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock's flat statement, appearing unsurprised. "Yeah, well, it's all we've got at the moment."

"Well, do go on, Lestrade," Sherlock said impatiently as the detective inspector hesitated. "You already know I won't be going with you. There are still a few things I want to check out here."

Lestrade grimaced, trading looks with John. "Sure there are," he said after a second. "Hypothetically speaking, you wouldn't be staying here to wait for another phone call, would you? One that might not be a wild goose chase?"

Sherlock didn't bother answering, simply turned away and hunkered down on his haunches, ostensibly examining the underside of the autopsy table where the syringe and vial had been found. Lestrade looked as if he were about to say something, shrugged, and headed for the door instead. However, in the act of pushing it open, he glanced over his shoulder at John and said: "Try to keep him out of trouble, yeah? Call us, maybe, if that bastard contacts you?"

John would never outright lie to Lestrade, so he only offered the other man a half nod and a shrug of the shoulders. The detective inspector grimaced, then hurried out of the morgue, his SOCO team close on his heels.

Not five minutes later, Sherlock's mobile rang. "Right on cue," he muttered as he slipped it out of his pocket.

The look on his face alerted John; it wasn't just a random blocked number, as per Moriarty's usual methods, but one Sherlock recognized. And under the current circumstances, there was only one number it could possibly be...

His suspicions were confirmed by Sherlock's one-word answer to his questioning look. "Molly."

He opened up what had to be a text message, and the three people remaining in the room were hit with a burst of music. It took John a second, but the singer's distinctive nasally tones were easy to identify. "Bob Dylan!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that one of Molly's favorites?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. 'Knocking On Heaven's Door,' she occasionally sings it when she's had a particularly difficult day."

Mary looked confused. "Oh? I don't think I've ever heard her sing!"

"She only sings to the corpses when she thinks she's alone," was Sherlock's absent response as he continued to stare down at the phone. John recognized his 'deep thinking' expression and kept shut, squeezing Mary's shoulder gently to indicate she should hush as well.

"St. Mary's," Sherlock said after a few minutes had passed in silence.

"Church?" John hazarded when it seemed that was all his friend was going to say.

Sherlock shook his head. "Graveyard. Come on, John. I know he won't be waiting for us there, but there's sure to be another clue for us to follow."

"Oh, but that's good, right? He wants you to find her!" Mary exclaimed, looking to John for confirmation of the hope shining in her eyes.

He kissed her briefly on the lips. "Yeah, it's good," he agreed, keeping his true thought tightly tamped down. "We'll let you know if we find anything."

She returned the kiss and hugged him tightly. "You be careful, John Watson. And bring our girl home safely, yeah?"

"Yeah," he replied, managing a sincere smile before dashing off after Sherlock, who'd already pushed open the doors to the morgue and started down the hall.

Any urge to smile was completely wiped away by the time they'd followed Moriarty's clue – the first of what would turn out to be three – the simple headstone gracing Richard and Theresa Hooper's graves. The plot was scrupulously tended, with cheerful flowers planted on either side of the gray marble headstone, red and purple and pink.

The next clue had been delivered via voicemail, Moriarty somehow managing to skip over the step where the mobile actually rang. He congratulated them on a job well done, then allowed them to hear Molly's tearful voice insisting that she was just fine. Hard to tell from those few words, but it didn't sound as if she were high, at least in John's medical opinion. Then another song began to play, this one more difficult for John to place.

"Alan Parsons Project," Sherlock pronounced after the message ended. "The song's called 'Eye In the Sky' and is another one of Molly's favorites."

Of course that meant they were off to the London Eye, a twenty minute cab drive during which Sherlock did little but type on his mobile while John stared out the window and tried not to worry. What the hell was Moriarty up to with this wild goose chase? Had Lestrade's tip been accurate after all, were he and Sherlock the ones tearing around for no good reason?

"He wants us to find her," Sherlock said, as if reading John's thoughts, nearly halfway to their newest destination. "Alive," he added, his voice as cool and impersonal as if it wasn't the woman he'd asked to move in with him they were discussing.

John, in spite of his impulse to yell at his friend for being heartless, knew better. This was tearing him up; there was no sign of the manic energy, the near gleefulness Sherlock usually displayed when in the throes of an interesting case. All he showed was a kind of grim determination that did not bode well for Moriarty if Sherlock ever got his hands on him.

"He wants us to find her," Sherlock said after another silent moment during which his fingers never seemed to stop moving over the buttons of the mobile, "but not until he's ready for us. The question is, of course, when will that be?"

A rhetorical question, but one John answered nonetheless. "When he's damned good and ready. Bastard," he added, to which Sherlock gave a curt nod of agreement.

They had barely paid the cabbie when Sherlock's mobile rang for a third time. This time, instead of a text or voice message, it was Moriarty himself. "Having fun on your little tour of London?"

"Let me speak to Molly," Sherlock demanded, ignoring the other man's taunting question.

"Oh, I can do better than that; she has a little performance ready for you, don't you my dear?"

There was silence, then Molly's soft, fearful voice came over the speaker. "Sh-Sherlock?"

John saw his hand tighten on the mobile, his knuckles going white, but his voice remained calm and even. "Molly. If you didn't want to move in with me, all you had to do was say so."

A hiccup of laughter at the deadpan quip, the sound of male voices murmuring in the background. More than one, even John could hear that much. So much for Lestrade finding Moran, the bastard was apparently with Moriarty and Molly. Wherever that might be...

John's murderous thoughts were interrupted by the unexpected sound of Molly's voice warbling the first few verses of a well-known drinking song: "Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed, I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went right to my head..."

With a click, the phone went dead.

Lips clenched tightly shut, Sherlock strode back to the edge of the pavement and raised his arm for a cab, since the one they'd arrived in had already driven off. Once inside, John asked him: "Where to now?"

"Baker Street," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. "He's sending us home, John. Kindly call Mrs. Hudson and make sure she's all right, will you?" Then he was back to shooting off messages to whoever it was he'd been texting before – possibly his brother Mycroft, possibly Lestrade – while John frantically tried to get through to their landlady.

**oOo**

Mrs. Hudson's mobile went straight to voice mail the three times John tried to call, and her house phone even went straight to the answering service when he tried that. However, it was Tuesday, Mrs. Hudson's shopping day, so it was possible that her mobile was legitimately dead – she had a bad habit of forgetting to charge it – and simply at the shops.

However, when Sherlock announced no luck on contacting either Lestrade or his brother – which he had been attempting both going to and leaving from the London Eye – John knew something was up.

Before he could be allowed to voice his suspicions, Sherlock cut him off with a curt, "Yes, John, he's fiddled our mobiles somehow, hijacked the signals. I doubt anyone is even getting the messages we've supposedly been leaving for them. For obvious reasons, of course."

The reasons weren't all that obvious to John, unless it was something as simple as Moriarty wanting them kept incommunicado while he had them racing about hither and yon. Which would make sense; he always preferred to keep his games on a more intimate level, to not involve the wider world unless it served a deliberate purpose.

Speaking of deliberate purposes, he found himself wondering, not for the first time, why the hell Moriarty was so fixated on Molly. Yes, she and Sherlock had helped trick him into believing that Sherlock had killed himself, but since the man had also faked his own suicide-by-gun-in-the-mouth, he could hardly cry foul. John shook his head at the very idea of expecting Moriarty to play fair or even by his own rules – and for even caring to puzzle out his motivations when all that mattered was Molly, and getting her out of this alive.

Alive, and God willing, in much better shape than she'd been after Moriarty took her the first time.

Before he knew it they'd reached their destination. Sherlock bounded out of the cab, leaving John to settle up and hurry after him. He'd left the main door open and was pounding on Mrs. Hudson's door as John entered the building.

The door opened abruptly, to reveal their landlady, blinking up at Sherlock with a befuddled expression on her face. "Goodness, Sherlock, what's wrong? I'm not deaf, you know. Is something wrong?"

Sherlock had already moved toward the stairs, leaving John to offer their landlady the vaguest of explanations, not wanting to worry her more than they already had – needlessly, as it turned out. "Oh, um, just a case," he said, backing up and offering her a reassuring smile. "So, yeah, I guess we'll be..." he motioned toward the stairs, then started to follow his flatmate.

"Oh, John, do tell Sherlock I said thank you!" she called just before he made it to the half-way point. John paused, looking back down at her in confusion. "The present," she explained. "It's lovely, perfect for my sitting room, exactly the right colors!" She beamed happily at her tenant, although the smile faltered as John stared down at her – and Sherlock abruptly reappeared, clattering down the stairs again, his expression intent as he reached the landing and came to a stop directly in front of her.

It didn't take a consulting genius to understand that Mrs. Hudson's innocent words had provoked a severe response. Her baffled expression morphed into anxiety as she clearly made the leap John had hoped to spare her from learning. "What's wrong? What's happened?" A sharp intake of breath as her hand went to mouth. "Something's happened to Molly, hasn't it."

"Show me." Sherlock's voice was sharp as he not-answered her question, but Mrs. Hudson didn't appear to take it personally, simply turned and pushed the door to her flat all the way open.

The two men followed her, John keeping a close eye on Sherlock. What fresh hell had Moriarty prepared for them disguised as a harmless present for Mrs. Hudson?

"A...pillow?" he asked as their landlady pointed to the cheerful blue and red embroidered square sat on her rocker. The cross-stitched motif in the center read: "Home is where the heart is" but instead of the typical border of hearts, instead he saw cherries.

His confusion must have been painfully easy to read, because Sherlock's next words were: "Cherries are Molly's favorite fruit, John; surely you've seen that atrocious jumper of hers enough times to realize that by now." He spoke almost absently as he returned his full attention to the harmless looking accessory, then took the few steps needed to place himself directly in front of the rocker. Once there he dropped to his haunches, still studying the pillow with the intensity of a cat at a mouse hole.

While John summed up the day's grim events to an increasingly horrified Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock remained perfectly still, nothing moving but his eyes as he examined Moriarty's "gift" from top to bottom. After a few minutes he leaned forward, nose twitching as if the scent of the pillow could tell him something.

Which, John thought later, wasn't so far off considering the next thing that happened. He'd just put a comforting arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulder as she sniffled over Molly being taken from them again when Sherlock rose abruptly to his feet. "Bomb!" he exclaimed in clipped tones. Snatching up the pillow before the other two could react, he raced into Mrs. Hudson's bathroom, lifted the toil lid, then slammed it down and pulled the door shut behind him, running back to the other two just as loud explosion shook the flat, knocking them to the floor.


End file.
